


Transitory Withdrawal

by zimriya



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Professors, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-02
Updated: 2013-07-04
Packaged: 2017-12-13 17:39:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/827007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zimriya/pseuds/zimriya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing is, Grantaire knows exactly where he went wrong. It wasn’t wandering into one of Enjolras’ lectures on a rainy afternoon, or even texting him increasingly cryptic messages from his brand new phone. No, Grantaire’s mistake was deciding to let his guard down long enough around Eponine to let her take him drinking, and crying about how no one would ever date him. </p><p>or The Coffee Shop AU that is really not a Coffee Shop AU because I know nothing of coffee.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part the first

**Author's Note:**

> So a certain someone (coughflamingocough) likes to reblog things so that I write her AUS. And she reblogged [this](http://zimriya.tumblr.com/post/51738163064/brolininthetardis-this-is-a-coffeeshop-au). Blame. Her.
> 
> Betaed by the lovely [bardofrats](http://bardofrats.tumblr.com/), who is my second oldest friend by the by. Go love her. All other mistakes are my own.
> 
> ~~DID I MENTION I KNOW NOTHING ABOUT COFFEE.~~

**1.**

**\--**

The sign reads, _Today your barista is 1) Hella fucking gay,_ and _2) Desperately single_. Grantaire would be fine with that, really, if it weren’t for the last part. _For your drink today_ , it continues, _I recommend you give me your number_.

Not only that, but when he gets in Thursday morning, it is to discover that Eponine and Cosette have made the executive decision to leave him alone at the counter. Even when the lunch rush hits, and the two of them emerge from the back with barely contained smiles, Grantaire is still getting numbers.

“I am going to kill you,” he tells Eponine, when they’re standing next to each other filling coffee cups. He could do it, too, since he has access to the internet and Gavroche once spent an entire month feeding him information on how to hide a body. He’s not going to tell Eponine any of that, because Gavroche swore him to secrecy and the kid is terrifying.

“No you’re not,” says Eponine, without looking at him. “We’re swamped and you need me.”

“Cosette and I could manage, right?”

Cosette doesn’t look up from where she’s filling her own cup. “Don’t look at me,” she says. “Last time I got in the middle with you two Combeferre refused to be seen with me for a week.” She smiles at her latest customer and hands them the drink, before eyeing the line. “Yeah, no, don’t kill her, we need her.”

Grantaire glares at her, thinks about sputtering, and goes over to hand his latest customer his latte. The man in question smiles at him and slides over a napkin. “Thank you,” he says.

“You’re welcome.” Grantaire takes it, looks down, and yep. It’s the guy’s phone number. Eponine is busy taking orders and Cosette is pumping espresso, so Grantaire can’t do anything other than smile at him, but he wouldn’t do anything regardless. Maybe glare at her, or something, but that’s really only about catharsis. He’d tried, at the beginning of the day, to turn people down, but that had only made them testy and Eponine had smacked him for turning away customers.

He goes to take the next order, and balks.

“The usual,” says Courfeyrac around a shit-eating grin. He’s standing half leaning against the counter with his work clothes still on, but his tie is half undone and he looks more than a little tired. “You know the drill.”

“If you say anything I will fucking kill you,” says Grantaire, through his teeth, but he enters Courfeyrac’s usual order anyway. “Rough day?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” says Courfyerac. “A certain someone was  rather irritable.” Courfeyrac raises his eyebrows at Grantaire and cranes his head to inspect the baked goods. “I think I’ll have a croissant.”

Grantaire adds that his total with a roll of his eyes. “Will that be all, sir?” he says. He’s careful to keep the mocking sarcasm coloring his tone to a minimum, because Courfeyrac will never pass up at a chance to draw him into a battle of sass, and last time that happened Eponine had threatened to fire him and call Valjean. No one has actually seen Cosette’s father except Cosette, Eponine, and Marius, and from the very shell-shocked expression on Marius’ face when he emerged from family dinner Grantaire gets the sense that he does not want to.

“Yes, thank you,” says Courfeyrac, lips twisting into a grin. “Unless you would like my number?”

Grantaire glowers at him and leaves the register to make his drink. “You are very lucky you’re a paying customer,” he grumbles.

He passes Eponine, who shoots him an amused look. “Come on,” she says. “Think of it this way: now I don’t have to spend hours scraping you off the floor of bars when you go off by yourself to moan about how no one will date you.” She pauses. “Wait, no, that’s not a plus side for you, never mind.”

Grantaire reaches into his apron pocket and throws a pen at her. “Why don’t you go take a bathroom break, or something?” he says, sourly. At the counter, Courfeyrac tries very hard not to laugh.

“No can do,” says Eponine. “Swamped.” She manages a smile for the awkward teenage boy standing in front of her and rolls her shoulders back.

“True,” says Grantaire, after a moment, while the kid heads over to the table of his friends. “Still going to kill you.”

Eponine rolls her eyes and turns to their next group of customers. It’s a group of college-age girls, and from the way Courfeyrac is suddenly very interested in his phone, it’s likely they’re in one of his friend’s classes. From the way one of them keeps staring dazedly at Courfeyrac, Grantaire would wager that he teaches at least three of them. He knows that look, intimately, from when he was an undergrad and seeing teachers at the supermarket was something to hide from.

“How can I help you?” says Eponine, with a bright smile. “I promise we’re not all as crazy as him.” She points at Grantaire, who makes a face, and the group all seems to relax, laughing easily and heading up to the counter to take orders.

Grantaire sets Courfeyrac’s coffee and croissant in front of him and smirks down at him. “So, professor,” he says. “Know any of them?”

Courfeyrac scowls at him and takes a quick sip of his coffee. It’s his usual response to Grantaire’s teasing, and so Grantaire doesn’t comment on the way he nurses his tongue afterwards. “You’re awful,” says Courfeyrac.

“So I’ve been told,” says Grantaire. He watches the girls curiously for a second, and frowns. “So is the red and blue a school thing or are they just really patriotic?” he asks.

“School colors,” says Courfeyrac. “You don’t even know the school’s name, do you,” he says, smiling.

“Nope.”  Grantaire probably should know the school’s name at this point, given how many of his friends teach there and also given how often he’s ended up loitering outside the building waiting for said friends. And of course, embarrassingly, that time he snuck into Enjolras’ lecture to avoid the headmaster Javert. Enjolras still thinks that’s how they first met, and Grantaire is perfectly happy to let him continue under that assumption.

“I don’t suppose you’d try to remember if I told you?” says Courfeyrac.

“Right again,” says Grantaire. “Don’t make that face; you know you love the look Enjolras gives me when I butcher it.”

Courfeyrac shakes his head at him. “You see this is exactly why he refuses to give you his number,” he says. “Contrary to popular belief he’s a very delicate person and last time you ruined one of his speeches he spent three hours crying on Combeferre’s couch.”

That last bit manages to startle a laugh out of Grantaire. “You’re lying,” he says.

“Maybe.”

Courfeyrac sounds serious, but when he pauses to grin at him, Grantaire knows he’s joking. “Very funny,” he says.

“No but really,” says Courfeyrac, trying and failing to hide a grin. “Hours.” He takes another sip of his coffee, which is at this point probably cool enough not to give him pause. “The man may look like he stepped out of a magazine, but he is one ugly crier. The couch will never be the same. You owe Combeferre for the cleaning.”

Grantaire pictures Combeferre’s couch, which is really everyone’s couch at this point, with its many stains from one too many movie nights and rolls his eyes. “Yeah, okay,” he says.

“See, you think I’m kidding, but I’m really not,” says Courfeyrac, but the laugh lines around his eyes give him away. He reaches up with his free hand to shove his curls out of his eyes. “Come now, Grantaire, would I lie to you about something like this?”

“About Enjolras?” says Grantaire. Cosette and Eponine have started taking turns glaring at him as they fill the orders, and he ignores them with a quick grin. It’s Eponine’s fault, really, since her stupid sign is the reason he’s less than interested in helping them out. He picks up a dishrag and makes a show of wiping down the counter where Courfeyrac is leaning, and Eponine somehow manages to flip him off while pumping espresso.

Courfeyrac is grinning at Grantaire when he turns his attention back to him. “Isn’t everything?” he asks, rhetorically, and then frowns when Grantaire’s face falls. “Oh, R--”  he tries to say.

“My point is that you seem to have made something of a sport of lying to me about Enjolras,” Grantaire says, over him. “In fact I’m pretty sure it’s a running joke.”

Courfeyrac smirks at him. “It’s not my fault you’re so gullible,” he says.

“I’m not gullible,” Grantaire grumbles. “I’m just hopeful.” He continues, flushing, before Courfeyrac can say _anything_ , “And he’s the one who refuses to share anything about himself with me.” The _with me_ part is generally implied when Grantaire ends up talking about Enjolras, but it’s been a long day filled with unwanted sexual advances, and Grantaire is tired. If Courfeyrac notices, he doesn’t mention it.

“I’m telling you get him drunk,” he says.

“And I’m telling you I’ve tried.”

Courfeyrac snorts at him. “It doesn’t count if you’re drunk,” he says. “He doesn’t take you seriously when you’re drunk.”

Grantaire outright laughs at him. “You’re not suggesting that he takes me seriously any other time, are you?” he says, and when a man in a button-down and dress pants enters the cafe with a chime he steps to his right so that he’s more solidly in front of the cash register. “How may I help you?”

The man looks a bit distracted, harried, and doesn’t do anything fancy with his drink, so Grantaire is feeling much better about everything when he brings it back to him and asks for his credit card. “Sign here, please,” he says.

The man does so with nothing more than a tiny smile, and Grantaire takes the receipt back with a sigh. “So anyway,” he starts to say to Courfeyrac, and then looks down. “Godammit, Eponine!”

Courfeyrac is laughing him, and from the sound of things Eponine is too.

“I hate you all,” says Grantaire.

“No, you don’t,” says Courfeyrac, reaching out to pat him on the back. “But I have to get back, so--”

Grantaire shoots a look at the clock to find that it is in fact about that time. “Right, yeah, of course,” he says, smiling and shaking his head at Courfeyrac. “I don’t mean to keep you from all those bright college minds. Haven’t you got some sort of revolution to be planning?”

Courfeyrac looks like he’s seriously considering smacking him, but instead reaches out to clasp him on the shoulder. “You are so lucky you make good coffee,” he says, reaching out to snag the pen from behind Grantaire’s ear. “Just for that, I’m giving you a present.” He leans down to tug the pad free of Grantaire’s pocket and scrawls a few numbers down on it. “Think of it as an early birthday present.” Courfeyrac winks at him, saucily, and grabs his coffee and croissant.

“Hey, wait, I have your number,” Grantaire says, taking the pen back without looking at it. “What are you--”

“If you look at the paper,” says Courfeyrac, loudly without looking over his shoulder when he’s almost reached the door. “You will find it is not my number.”

Grantaire looks down at it, frowning, and blinks. “Huh,” he says.

“You are very welcome!” calls Courfeyrac, before stepping out of the cafe and rounding the corner back to campus.

Grantaire is left staring after him with the piece of paper clutched in his fist, feeling rather like what he’s holding isn’t made out of recyclable tree pulp but is instead solid gold.

\--

The first thing he has to do that evening, is determine if what Courfeyrac has handed him is in fact Enjolras’ number. The means to do that, of course, do not come to him until he is lying on Bahorel and Feuilly’s floor contemplating a stain on their ceiling.

The two of them had descended upon him as soon as Courfeyrac told them about Eponine’s sign, whereupon they demanded all of the pieces of paper he tried to recycle, and dragged him off to get resoundingly drunk. Grantaire, upon seeing them, had very frantically taken Enjolras’ scrap of paper and shoved into the rest of the pile, because he only had five seconds and he panicked. Which is why, two hours later, he is lying prostrate on Feuilly and Bahorel’s floor, sighing.

“I don’t see why you even wanted them,” says Grantaire sourly, when Feuilly hangs up on their most recent victim gleefully.

“Hush, we’re on the phone,” says Bahorel, evenly, with a cellphone pressed to his ear.

“Is that my phone?” says Grantaire, staring at the cellphone in Bahorel’s hand. “Hang on, when did you get my phone?”

“Shh,” reiterates Feuilly. “Phone call.”

Grantaire glares at him, gets to his feet, and grabs for the phone. It’s still ringing when he presses it to his ear, and he hits end call before that can change. “How many of them have you called?” he says.

“Not that many,” says Bahorel.

“Almost all of them,” says Feuilly.

“Fuck my life,” says Grantaire. He considers chucking the phone out of the window. “Now I have to get a new number.”

Neither Bahorel nor Feuilly looks all that bothered by this information. “Look on the bright side,” points out Bahorel. “Now you can get a new phone.”

“What’s wrong with my phone?”

“Your phone _flips_ , Grantaire,” says Bahorel, slowly. Feuilly reaches out and takes the phone from Grantaire’s hand, and gives it a hard flick. All three of them watch as the phone opens, and closes, with a sickening crunch. “Nobody has phones that flip anymore.”

That’s true, actually, since Eponine and Cosette had taken to mocking Grantaire’s phone, which they called the dinosaur, to the point where Grantaire had seriously considered buying a new phone to make them stop. He ended up buying a new watercolor set instead, because on the way there Courfeyrac sent him a terrible picture of Enjolras attempting to fly a kite and the way the wind was playing with the man’s hair was asking for watercolor.

“So,” says Grantaire, eventually. “I’m not everyone.”

“Aw, come on,” says Bahorel. He reaches into a pile to pick up a number at random. “I’m sure that four four three--hey, isn’t this Enjolras’ number--?”

Grantaire isn’t sure how, but he somehow goes from awkwardly standing in front of them holding his phone to wrestling Bahorel to the floor in order to get his hands on the piece of paper. “What?” he says, voice coming out something like a squawk. “No, it’s not, what are you talking about?” He emerges victorious with the number still mostly intact, and scrambles to his feet. The room is possibly spinning.

“Oh my god,” says Bahorel. “Who gave you that? Did Enjolras give you that? Did the idiot finally--”

Feuilly slaps a hand over Bahorel’s mouth. “What we’re trying to say is why do you have Enjolras’ number?”

Grantaire frowns at them. “Courfeyrac gave me it,” he says.

Bahorel makes a disappointed noise and Feuilly lets go of his mouth. “Ah,” he says. Feuilly kicks him. “I mean yes, good.”

Grantaire shakes his head at the both of them. “What is wrong with you?”

“So what are you going to do with said number?” says Feuilly. “Call him?”

“I was figuring texting,” says Grantaire, after a moment’s pause. “Or actually, since I lost the number once you idiots ambushed me at work, I wasn’t planning much of anything?”

Bahorel is grinning at him again. “What you should do is text him from your new phone,” he says, taking Grantaire’s phone back from Feuilly. “You have a new message from, erm, one of the numbers, I think. Let me just--” he reaches for the list he and Feuilly have accumulated and frowns. “Mike,” he says. “The accountant. Who likes bondage.”

Grantaire takes the phone back from him with a flush high on his cheeks. “Give me that,” he hisses. He does, in fact, have a new message, which he deletes without looking at it. “I don’t need a new pho--” His phone buzzes. One new message. He sighs.

“So, phone shopping?”

\--

It occurs to Grantaire, seconds after he sends his first text message to Enjolras, that Enjolras does not know his new number. Enjolras never knew his old number to start with, actually. Texting him something innocuous like, _hey_ , as he did would be fine, if Enjolras knew who he was. As it stands, he gets back an almost instant response.

 _Excuse me?_ it reads. Figures Enjolras would have perfect grammar even at--he checks the clock--three in the morning on a work day. _Who is this?_ comes back a few moments later, and Grantaire blinks down at his new phone screen to consider his choices. He can allow Enjolras to wonder, possibly for weeks, in order to see how long it takes before he develops a twitch in his eye (the undergrads are hilarious when Enjolras’ eye is twitching, because for all they know _it could be them_ ) or he could tell him who he is.

Or he could call Eponine; that’s always a good life choice.

"Hello?"

"Hey!"

“R?” says Eponine, voice sleep-roughened. Grantaire bets she’s only using the nickname because it’s so late, and she can’t quite get her mouth to work. “What have I said about calling me at three in the morning?”

“Only to do it if something is on fire,” Grantaire replies, promptly. He gives the canvas in front of him a good long look and calls it a night, chucking the paintbrush towards the kitchen sink and missing; it’s caked in paint, anyway, since he can’t always be bothered to clean it off.

 Eponine makes a squawking noise. She must have just rolled out of bed, because the sound of her body hitting the floor is loud and recognizable. (Grantaire has fallen out of a lot of beds, actually, now that he thinks about it. Perhaps he should work on that.)

“Are you okay?” says someone that Grantaire is pretty sure is Combeferre.

“Yeah, fine, go back to sleep,” says Eponine, sounding breathless and more than a little spooked. “Grantaire, where are you?”

Grantaire narrows his eyes. “Is that who I think it is?” he says.

“What’s on fire?” says Eponine, frantically.

“Nothing.” He rests his chin in his palm. “Did Combeferre finally get his shit together?”

Eponine sounds like she’s scowling. “I’m okay,” she says, muffled. “I might have to go murder Grantaire, but you can go back to sleep.”

“’Mkay,” says Combeferre. “I’ll wait to call the cops till you’ve hidden the body.”

“Hey!” says Grantaire. “I resent that she couldn’t take me.”

Eponine snorts at him and there’s the sound of a door closing. “Are you kidding, you’re harmless.” Grantaire imagines her settling onto Combeferre’s couch with a great leap. “Now, what’s up?”

“I texted Enjolras.”

Eponine is silent for a bit. “And?”

“He doesn’t know it’s me.”

“Ah,” says Eponine. “Well, you know he’ll just ask someone when he sees them tomorrow--”

“That’s the thing, I got a new number because Feuilly and Bahorel called all of the numbers I got yesterday,” Grantaire continues in one breath. “So he doesn’t know who I am. And no one else does.”

Eponine pauses. “Huh,” she says. “So basically you’re calling me because you want me to be the voice of reason to your crazy ideas?”

“About sums it up, yeah.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to call someone else?” Eponine’s voice sounds small, and Grantaire shakes his head.

“No,” he says, equally small. “I mean, would that be a good plan?”

“Probably?”

Grantaire shifts his palm so that he can hide a smirk and grabs a piece of paper; the smirk curling around Eponine’s words demands to be drawn. “It’s late, though,” he says. “Everyone is sleeping.”

Eponine mutters something that sounds very much like, “I was sleeping.”

“You were not,” Grantaire replies, grinning.

“What are you, twelve?” says Eponine.

“No, but it’s one thing to suspect and another to have proof.”

Eponine sounds like she’s rolling her eyes. “We weren’t exactly hiding it, R,” she says.

“But still.”

“Would you like me to send out a group text?”

He is full out grinning now. “Nope,” he says. “But speaking of texts...”

“Well think of it this way,” says Eponine. “The worst he can do is find out it’s you and never speak to you again.”

Grantaire considers that for a moment, and has to go sit down heavily on his couch. “Ouch,” he says.

Eponine hisses. “But,” she says quickly. “The best case scenario he finds out it’s you and realizes that once upon a time you got into a drunken brawl for him.”

Grantaire chokes on his own breath. “Eponine,” he says, cheeks suddenly flaming. “Shh!”

“Combeferre sleeps like the dead,” says Eponine. “Besides, it’s not like you’re making that a big secret.”

“It’s a secret from Enjolras!” says Grantaire. “Combeferre can’t keep secrets from Enjolras to save his life!” He pauses. “Wait, does this mean Enjolras knew you were dating before we all did?”

Eponine says nothing.

“Oh my god, that’s totally why he insisted we have Courfeyrac’s birthday party at their apartment.”

“What?” says Eponine. “That makes no sense, what are you talking about?”

“Shh,” says Grantaire, and then repeats it. “My world view is shifting to accommodate the fact that Enjolras can keep a secret.”

“Wow,” says Eponine. “Okay, well I’m going to go back to sleep--”

“No wait, I need you to make a last attempt to prevent me from possibly ruining my tenuous friendship with the man I’m in love with!”

“Grantaire,” says Eponine, seriously. He can hear her shifting on the couch. “Do not text Enjolras creepy and surprisingly helpful things throughout the day just so you can watch his eye twitch.”

“How did you know about the eye thing?” says Grantaire. “Also, no.”

“It’s hilarious, Cosette and I have a drinking game,” says Eponine. “Aw, darn, well, I tried. Alas.”

Grantaire laughs. “You’re a star, ‘Ponine,” he says.

“Love you too,” she says, before she hangs up.

Grantaire is left staring at his phone with a soft smile on his face, before he tugs it away from his ear to thumb back to his new text message.

 _Who is this?_ glares back at him with Enjolras’ too blue, too fierce eyes. He purses his lips.

 _You’re up late_ , he types. _Shouldn’t you be asleep?_

He gets a reply back near instantly. _It’s not late_ , it reads. _Also, who IS_ _this?_ Enjolras can’t bold or italicize his texts, but he makes do. Grantaire is left feeling suitably chastised and also entirely too pleased to care.

 _You’re going to get circles under your eyes_ , he sends back. _And your students will worry about you. You don’t want them to worry about you; they might start baking you brownies again._

The gap between texts is longer, but eventually Grantaire’s phone dings. _So you know where I work,_ Enjolras types. _Okay._

Seconds later, he sends, _Please tell me you’re not one of my students? I’d rather not have to change numbers again._

Grantaire blinks. _No,_ he types. _Your students have gotten hold of your number?_

 _A friend, then_ , says Enjolras. _Or a friend of a friend? Did Courfeyrac send you?_

Grantaire’s lips twitch and he gets up to grab a glass of water before bed. _Not important_ , he types as he goes. _But you really should sleep_. He ends up grabbing a near-empty bottle of wine instead, because the sink is too far and he’s left it out on his counter-top. (He thinks he did, at least; might have been Feuilly.)

 _I’ll sleep if you tell me who you are_ , says Enjolras, reasonably, ever the practical one.

Grantaire grins. _Nice try,_ he says. _Sleep._ He heads to his bed, yawning, and walks his way out of his work clothes. There is paint all over his hands, but he has to change his sheets tomorrow anyway and it’s near-dry, so he tugs his t-shirt off and crawls into bed.

 _I have work to do_ , says Enjolras. Grantaire can practically see the petulance oozing off of the sentence.

 _No,_ he types out. _Sleep._

He gives this phone one last once over, and then puts it on silent. He has work tomorrow, and no amount of mischief done tonight will be enough to prevent Eponine from yelling at him if he’s late again.

 _Fine_ , Enjolras sends back. _But don’t think this means you can get away with being anonymous._

 _That has to be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me_ , Grantaire types back. _I’m touched_.

He settles under his covers, yawning some more and cracking his shoulders, before his phone lights up one last time.

_WHO ARE YOU?_

Grantaire takes one look at the screen, and can’t quite stop the burst of laughter that erupts from his chest; this is going to be fun.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://zimriya.tumblr.com/). Now with bonus animated gifs of the texts [here](http://zimriya.tumblr.com/post/55063341304/texts-from-transitory-withdrawal).


	2. Part the second

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I somehow let this sit for more than a week I am sorry. I've finally vaguely figured out a plot/chapter count, though! (Hopefully. I will try for only five chapters. Try.)
> 
> Betaed by the lovely [decourfeynated](http://decourfeynated.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. All other mistakes are my own.

**2.**

\--

Grantaire wakes up and his phone is ringing. He can tell, because the too-bright shine in his eyes is going on for far too long to just be a text message. To be Enjolras.

He goes from pretty much entirely asleep to pretty much entirely awake in about three seconds, and grabs it off the table quickly. _Eponine_ , it reads. Also, _6:45 am_. Grantaire glares at it and waits for it stop ringing. A few seconds pass, and it starts up again. He scowls.

“Is this revenge?” he says, picking up. “Are you getting back at me for waking you at three in the morning?”

“What did you do to Enjolras last night?” says someone who is definitely not Eponine.

“Courfeyrac?” says Grantaire, finally. “Why do you have Eponine’s phone?”

There is a short pause. “Why are you asking it like that?” asks Courfeyrac.

“You know,” says Grantaire. “It is very rude to answer a question with a question. Aren’t you a teacher?”

Courfeyrac snorts. “Yes,” he says, not sounding nearly as concerned as he had prior. “And if a student came to me and tried to do something like that I’d tell them to get out of my office--”

“Ouch.” Grantaire rolls over to prop up his chin on his free hand and yawns. “Please tell me you didn’t actually do that.”

Courfeyrac is worryingly silent. “No,” he says finally. “That would be immature. And I’m not Enjolras.”

That last bit comes out in one long string of syllables that leaves Grantaire blinking. “Please tell me you’re joking,” he says. “I was joking. You have to have been also joking, because otherwise why the fuck is Enjolras still teaching.” He pauses. “Is that the secret?” he continues, in a hush. “Is Enjolras a fake teacher?”

“What?”

“Like in _Office Space_ \--how Milton never knew he had been fired--!”

“The fact that you can relate every conversation we have to our last movie night will never cease to amaze me,” says Courfeyrac, dryly.

“You love me, shut up,” says Grantaire, but he’s grinning.

“Mm,” says Courfeyrac. “So, Enjolras.”

 “Hey, no,” says Grantaire. “It is ass o’clock in the morning I deserve more than an ‘mm.’”

Courfeyrac doesn’t say anything. “He’s somewhat disturbingly perky,” he says, as if Grantaire hadn’t interjected. “To the point where I’m worried he didn’t sleep at all--you know he gets when it’s Finals--and also he keeps picking up his phone and swearing at it.”

There’s a beat. Something sounds like it rustles, and then footsteps echo in the background. Grantaire can somewhat make out voices. Something that sounds incredibly like a broom hits tile and Courfeyrac breaks off to mutter to himself. Grantaire pauses. “Are you in a supply closet?” he says, finally.

“...No,” says Courfeyrac. “You’re missing the point. Something on Enjolras’ phone has got him all worked up and I think we both know what it is.”

Grantaire kicks off his covers. “Hmm,” he says. “Why are you in a supply closet?”

“It is surprisingly hard to get a few moments to one’s self during office hours,” says Courfeyrac, with dignity.

“Office-- _Office Hours_ ,” hisses Grantaire, suddenly sitting upright. “Courfeyrac you can’t be hiding in a supply closet during your _office hours_!” It is possible his voice goes up at the end.

“Aw, so you do care about my job,” says Courfeyrac. “I’m touched.”

Grantaire scowls to himself, hard. “You are a menace,” he says. “Just for that I am taking away a star.”

“Oh no,” says Courfeyrac. “Whatever will I do?”

“You’re hilarious,” says Grantaire. He considers his clock, his deadline, the easel he can see from his bed and the half-finished painting on it, and yawns. Probably he should shower instead of painting; Eponine might actually kill him this morning if he shows up covered in acrylics. It would serve her right, but he knows better than to try her when she’s well-rested, let alone when she’s sleep-deprived.

“Hey, at least I give a damn about the stars,” says Courfeyrac. “Pretty sure Joly spends a good half of the time we’re at yours trying to subtly ascertain if they’re a cry for help.”

Grantaire blinks. “First of all,” he says, slowly. “It is too early for that shit-- _ascertain_ what are you, a dictionary?”

“--Just because some of us have day jobs that involve more words than ‘what can I get you’ and ‘will that be all’ does not mean you can mock us,” Courfeyrac tries to interject.

Grantaire ignores him. “Second, how the fuck would a friendship chart be a cry for help?”

Sleeping in is out of the question, so he yawns a bit more and struggles his way upright. The hand with the phone ends up somewhere around his hip, but he doesn’t care. He should brush his teeth.

“--are you even listening to me?” Courfeyrac is saying when he reaches the bathroom and hits speaker.

“Yes,” says Grantaire.

“You’re lying to me,” says Courfeyrac after a pause.

“Yes,” Grantaire says again, wetting his toothbrush. “I’m glad we had this talk.” He squirts some toothpaste onto the brush and sticks it in his mouth.

Courfeyrac doesn’t say anything for a bit, before he seems to break. “Right, of course,” says Courfeyrac. “I should know better,” he adds.

Grantaire wonders, briefly, what he missed, but he very quickly shakes it off. “You should,” he says, instead.

“You’re not going to tell me what you did to Enjolras, are you?”

“What makes you think it was me?” points out Grantaire.

“Really, R?” says Courfeyrac, dry as a bone. “ _Really_?”

“What?”

“Enjolras has more faces than most Oscar winning actors,” says Courfeyrac, like he’s teaching a class. (Grantaire would know; he’s attended Courfeyrac’s lectures before.) “But if there’s one that I know like the back of my hand it is the one he makes when you’re doing something stupid.”

“Or breathing,” puts in Grantaire. “Can’t forget that one.”

“To be fair you had a cold,” says Courfeyrac. “And it was rather disturbing.”

“I was breathing,” says Grantaire.

“Yeah, well,” says Courfeyrac. “The point is he has a particular look. And he has been making that look all morning. Although, actually, thinking on it it’s slightly different? Softer, maybe--”

“I might be texting him,” says Grantaire, loudly, to drown out the roaring in his ears. It really is not that big of a deal that Enjolras is more fond of his anonymous critiquing texts than he is of Grantaire’s own.

“So,” says Courfeyrac. “I text him all the time--during his classes, when I’m bored, when he looks bored, when he looks possessed--he doesn’t so much as flinch.”

“Possibly he has no idea it’s me?”

“I’m sorry run that by me again?” Courfeyrac sounds positively gleeful.

“Nope,” says Grantaire. He takes a gulp of water and rinses his mouth before spitting into the sink. “I refuse to talk to you when you use that tone.”

“What tone?” says Courfeyrac. “I’m not using a tone.”

“You are using a tone,” repeats Grantaire. “It’s the tone that made Enjolras take one look at your April Fools card and put it in a paper shredder.”

“Hey, I put effort into that!”

“You are using _that tone_ and I want nothing to do with it.”

“Aw, come on,” says Courfeyrac. “I’ve known Enjolras for almost as long as Combeferre, and you’re never going to break Combeferre. Man is like a warrior.”

“Sleeps like the dead, too,” Grantaire points out, mostly to himself. “Go on, I’m listening.”

“No, but you need an inside man,” says Courfeyrac. “You’re hopeless.”

 “As the one currently hiding from his students and oldest friend slash roommate, you are one to talk,” says Grantaire.

“Hush,” says Courfeyrac. “I’m risking my life volunteering to be your inside man. You should be grateful.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “Should I?” he says, unimpressed.

“Yes,” says Courfeyrac.

“Worthy of a star?”

“Worthy of a star.”

That’s probably stretching it, but Grantaire figures he’ll humor him. “If you say so,” he says.

He picks up the phone and exits the bathroom, heading over to the chart in question. In bold, brightly colorful, magazine-cutout letters it reads, “ _The FRIENDSHIP chart_.” Down the side, it has everyone’s names, as well as a series of gold star stickers next to each of them. Grantaire is pretty sure that the thing had a system once upon a time, but then again, Grantaire is also pretty sure that the thing was the product of a drunken dare. No one is forthcoming, but they’ve all pretty much embraced the slightly eccentric wall decoration. Not Enjolras, of course, but that’s probably more to do with the fact that Grantaire has taken to giving him negative friendship stars.

“Yay,” says Courfeyrac, sounding pleased.  “How many do I have now?”

Grantaire adds a gold star with a flourish. “You’re nearly beating Feuilly now,” he says. “Speaking of which, I should punish him and Bahorel for getting me into this mess in the first place.”

Courfeyrac is silent for a moment. “What mess?” he asks.

“They called all of the numbers I got,” says Grantaire, beginning the arduous process of scraping stars off the chart. “If not for them, I wouldn’t be busy turning Enjolras’ very pretty head grey.” He gets one of the stars off with a shout of triumph and starts on Bahorel’s.

“Yeah, about that,” says Courfeyrac. “What’s to stop me from telling him it’s you?”

Grantaire doesn’t bat an eyelash. “Don’t even pretend you don’t think it’s funny.”

“I have to admit it’s kind of funny,” says Courfeyrac.

“Also, if I have you on my side it could be even better. You could be my inside man.”

Courfeyrac appears to be considering that. “Do I get another star?” he says finally.

Grantaire takes the star he peeled away from Bahorel’s name and sticks it next to Courfeyrac’s. “Better,” he says. “You can have Bahorel’s star.”

Courfeyrac sounds amused. “He’s going to be pissed,” he says. “I fear for my life.”

“No you don’t,” says Grantaire, primly. “Don’t lie to me. I bet you haven’t stopped grinning since I told you.”

“Only Eponine has your number?” says Courfeyrac, finally.

“Yep.”

There’s a beat.

“Fine.” Coufeyrac moves, and suddenly he sounds like he’s surrounded by many more people.

“Professor?” says a voice. “Why are you in this hallway? And were you hiding in the supply closet just now--?”

“No, no, not at all!” says Courfeyrac, loudly. “Don’t you have class, Solène?”

“Um, no--it’s not seven, yet--”

“No matter, carry on!”

Grantaire listens to Courfeyrac’s footsteps as he heads down the hall. “I can see why they hired you,” he says. “Do you give lessons?”

“Ha ha,” says Courfeyrac. “You’re hilarious.”

“True,” says Grantaire. “But I’m serious, Courfeyrac. If you get tired of watching performances and lecturing for hours, you could always do all those things but about teaching instead.”

“Hilarious,” repeats Courfeyrac.

“I try.”

“No, but if I’m going to be your inside man, I’m going to say that the first thing you should do is shower.”

Grantaire sighs. “Fine,” he says; he was going to anyway.

“Also, Enjolras has a dick-shaped birthmark on his ass,” says Courfeyrac, in a rush. He hangs up, leaving Grantaire staring down at his phone in mild horror.

“Okay then,” he says, finally, and goes to take a shower.

\--

 _So, question_ , Grantaire types, just before the cafe gets busy while he’s busy using he counter as a seat. _Do you have any odd birthmarks?_

Enjolras won’t get the message until after his first class, because Grantaire knows for a fact that the idiot gives morning classes. It’s a testament to how good he is at teaching that his classes fill up so quickly and are in such demand; that, and he looks damn fabulous in a suit. He sends the text anyway, because why not, and spends the entire morning completely on edge.

“Okay,” says Eponine, about an hour into the work day when they have a bit of a lull. “What did you do?” She says it without any question-indicating inflection, and Grantaire knows better than to protest.

He tries anyway. “Nothing?”

Eponine stares at him.

He tries again. “Courfeyrac has your phone?”

That garners more of a reaction: Eponine blinks. “He does?” She goes rummaging through her pockets and comes up empty handed. “Huh. Any reason why _you_ know that?”

“He called me when Enjolras was particularly snappish this morning?”

Eponine stares at him. “Right,” she says. “So what did you text him last night?”

Grantaire shrugs. “Nothing important.” He fiddles with the cup of straws sitting in front of him for a bit until he knocks it over, at which point he sets about putting them back in one by one.

Eponine sighs. “Grantaire,” she says. “At the very least can you tell me how tense Combeferre is going to be this evening, because while I very much enjoy the endgame of our massage sessions it’s a lot of work for my hands -- ”

Grantaire lets go of the straws so that he can bury his hands in his hair. “Thank you for that lovely image, ‘Ponine,” he says. “It had actually been a full forty-eight hours since I imagined one of my friends fucking -- you’ve done me a service.” He drags his hands down over his eyes, both to try to erase the image of Combeferre in the throes of passion and so that he can’t see Eponine as she laughs at him.

Cosette perks up. “What happened?” she says, brightly.

Grantaire removes one hand to point at her. “Don’t you say anything either,” he continues. “Last time Marius stopped by for break the two of you were so sickening that we actually lost customers.”

“Hey,” Cosette protests.

“Don’t look at me,” says Eponine. “We did.”

Grantaire nods in what he hopes is her general direction without uncovering his eyes.

“Why are you even doing that?” Eponine says finally. The door chimes open.

“If I look at you,” Grantaire says seriously. “I am going to imagine Combeferre bending you over all sorts of pieces of furniture. I do not need that image.”

“Who’s bending whom, now?” comes Jehan’s voice, and Grantaire peeks out from behind his eyes to see him standing, grinning, in front of the counter. He’s pulled his hair back into a ponytail again, but the black button-down offsets the look to make him look just a shade darker than usual. For all that he’s smiling, there are dark smudges under his eyes. Grantaire frowns; he hates finals week.

“You’re in early,” says Cosette.

Jehan shrugs. “End of the year, you know,” he says. “Portfolios.”

Grantaire has all sorts of associations with the word ‘portfolios,’ but most of them involve pulling all-nighters to meet stupid requirements like “must use clay” or, “must have up to three different materials,” or even, “must be something other than that one man you’re always drawing” in the latter half of his art school days.

Jehan, obviously, means nothing of the sort, so Grantaire just nods. “Ah,” he says. “That bad?”

“Ah, no,” says Jehan. “But, I’m teaching some basic levels this year so I’ve pretty much just been reading and grading.” He sighs. “It’ll be over soon, at least.”

Grantaire feels a little bad about how he had teased Courfeyrac for the slightly terrifying edge to his smile the other day.

“But no matter,” says Jehan. “I’ve been told by Courfeyrac that I’m to interrogate you.”

Grantaire takes it all back; Courfeyrac can rot in undergraduate-filled hell, for all he cares.

 “Interrogate?” says Cosette.

“Oh, was that supposed to be a secret?” says Jehan. “Sorry.” He doesn’t sound sorry at all, and Grantaire makes a whimpering noise and puts his head down on his arms. He stares blankly out across the cafe floor and laments that this is his life.

“Aw, don’t make that face,” says Eponine. “Look, you’ve broken him.”

Grantaire hates them _all_. “Shut up,” he says. He manages to get a hand free to point in Eponine. “You in particular -- I’m not talking to you anymore.”

Eponine laughs at him. “Oh, hush,” she says. “You need me. I have leverage.”

“You do not,” says Grantaire, sourly.

She raises her eyebrows. “Unless you want me to text a certain someone your number, then I’m going to have to say yes I do,” she says. When Grantaire doesn’t move, she holds out a hand to Jehan. “Can I borrow your phone? R got a new one and I want to update everyone--”

Grantaire scowls, and sits up. “Fine,” he says. “I need you.”

Eponine blinks at him. “Better,” she says. “But not quite there yet. Jehan?”

Grantaire really will kill her, but later, when he’s not in a public place with Cosette and Jehan both smiling at them fondly.

“I’m inclined to give her this,” says Jehan, pulling his phone out of his pocket and giving it a wave.

Grantaire just frowns harder and steps forward to pull a reluctant Eponine into his arms. He rocks them back and forth a bit. “’Ponine,” he croons. “Don’t be like that.” He crosses his arms across her hips and presses little joking kisses to her jaw.

Eponine shakes her head a little, but puts her hands on top of Grantaire’s and rocks with him. “You’re shameless,” she says, but is giggling.

“You love me anyway,” says Grantaire, grinning back at her. When she turns to better look at him, he kisses her on the nose.

“Yes, well,” says Eponine, over the chime of the bell. “I’ve been known to have bad taste.”

“You going to let that slide?” says Combeferre, and Grantaire doesn’t look up to see him entering the cafe. “As my best friend, I think it is your duty to defend me.”

There’s a pause.

“Enjolras?”

Two things happen at once: Grantaire’s head snaps up, and Enjolras says, “You don’t understand, they won’t stop texting me.”

 “Oh my god, Eponine,” Grantaire manages to hiss at Eponine, who very quickly lets him go so that he can grab for his phone as subtly as possible.

He gets it put on silent about the same time Combeferre says, with a sigh, “Well you do keep texting them back.”

Enjolras shakes his head. “Well they obviously know who I am,” he says, as if Combeferre is the one being ridiculous. He sounds vexed, and Grantaire very quickly squashes any and all feelings of glee he has because of that. It’s very stupid to be so affected by every reaction he manages to coax free of Enjolras’ marble shell of professionalism. Particularly since the sad way Courfeyrac pats him on the back and takes him drinking when he mentions it suggests that Enjolras is only really that way with Grantaire.

“Yes,” Combeferre agrees. He sounds like he’s been having this conversation all morning, and Grantaire would feel bad, but then he remembers the lack of concern the man had displayed with regards to Eponine’s threats of bodily harm. “But again, you’re only encouraging them.”

“You don’t understand,” says Enjolras. He frowns very hard down at his screen, and when Grantaire glances down, it’s to see that’s he received a new text. He doesn’t move to open it because he does not have a death wish, and Enjolras only seems to furrow his brow all the more at the lack of response.

“No, I think I do,” says Combeferre. “As you haven’t stopped telling me about it all morning--”

“Anyway,” says Enjolras, loudly, and possibly flushing a little at the tips of his ears. “We’ll have our usual.”

“I don’t suppose you’re still taking numbers?” says Combeferre, grinning at Eponine, who smacks him.

Grantaire isn’t really sure how he didn’t notice the obviously flirting before now. He snags Jehan by the sleeve and tugs him close. “Tell me, are they acting any different?”

Jehan blinks. “No?”

“Huh,” says Grantaire. “I guess I’m out of practice -- Apollo!” He raises his voice, releases Jehan, and comes forward at the counter to smile up at Enjolras.

Enjolras just raises an eyebrow. “Grantaire,” he says. He’s wearing the suit again, the suit that Grantaire and probably the entire college call the “suit of sex.” Coupled with the “red shirt of sex” and one of his many silky ties, Enjolras is the pretty much the picture of sex.

It really does nothing to help Grantaire come up with anything beyond a “huh?”

“You called?” says Enjolras, dryly.

“Even though we’re not taking numbers anymore, you could still give me yours,” he manages.

Enjolras’ lips twitch, which Grantaire counts as progress. “No thank you,” he says. “Nice try, though.”

Grantaire slaps a hand over his heart and sighs. “You wound me,” he says, and Enjolras almost smiles. That really should not make Grantaire’s heart nearly skip a beat, but as his hand is still covering it he can’t even pretend not to notice. “Um,” he says. “You look a little --”

“Tired,” puts in Combeferre, over the top of his coffee cup. “He looks tired. Which is probably because for all that Courfeyrac claims to be able to make him go to sleep at a decent time, the man is a horrible pushover.”

Grantaire snorts. “I think it’s just that Enjolras is terrifying,” he says, stepping into Eponine’s place to enter Enjolras’ own coffee order.

“Hey,” says the man in question. “I am not.”

Grantaire doesn’t look up as he steps over to the machines. “Don’t lie to me,” he says. “Speaking of Courfeyrac,” he adds. “Why isn’t he here?”

“Something came up,” says Enjolras, sweetly, and Grantaire makes a note to send Courfeyrac flowers or something because apparently he was not exaggerating the amount of danger that would come with being the inside man.

“Okay,” he says. “Not helping your case for not being terrifying.” He grabs a marker and scribbles his usual _Apollo_ on Enjolras’ cup. “You’re the type of professor that makes the students who can legally drink feel self conscious about their alcohol.” He shoots Combeferre a quick glance, and at his nod adds another shot of espresso.

“You’re one to talk,” says Enjolras, shortly, and at least when Grantaire glances up at him he looks vaguely apologetic. “Sorry,” he says. “That was, um, unnecessary.”

There’s a small, uncomfortable silence, before Eponine clears her throat. “That was surprisingly mature of you, actually,” she says, reaching out to fluff Enjolras’ hair. That he lets her, says everything. “I think that’s worthy of a star, don’t you?”

Grantaire blinks, and gives it a moment’s thought. “Well,” he says. “It would put you one step closer to positive stars,” he says.

“How can you even have negative stars?” Enjolras tries to ask, again, because that’s what he always asks, and the tension breaks when Combeferre sighs at him.

“I thought we agreed that it was better to not to question the Friendship Chart,” he says.

“We did no such thing,” says Enjolras. He takes the cup of coffee when Grantaire hands it to him and hands over the exact change. Grantaire blinks down, suddenly lightheaded, and Eponine has to shove him before he can go about putting it into the cash register. “Would you stop writing on these? I’m right here.”

“No, you definitely agreed,” puts in Jehan, before Grantaire can respond to that. He would say that he’d forgotten he was there, but Jehan writing furiously on a napkin is never a good thing and mostly he tries to pretend it’s not happening. Last time he asked, Jehan had smiled at him and told him to come to a poetry reading. The reading had been fun; Jehan’s startlingly realistic and terrifyingly cynical poetry, not so much. “Last week,” Jehan continues, unaware of Grantaire’s thoughts. “At our impromptu sleepover?”

Grantaire blinks. “Wait, what sleepover?” he says. “You guys had a sleepover without me?”

“Emphasis on impromptu,” says Enjolras, sighing. “And if I remember correctly, that was the weekend you spent making Bossuet tear out all his hair by stealing Musichetta’s term papers and refusing to return them or say where you were.”

Grantaire closes his mouth. “Oh yeah.” He considers Enjolras for a moment. “If it helps, I never left my apartment, and Bahorel made me?”

Enjolras reaches up to run a hand through his hair. “Actually that does help,” he says. “Fuck.”

“Anyway,” says Combeferre, while Grantaire’s brain frantically replays Enjolras’s perfect voice saying ‘fuck’ over and over on a loop. “We figured we’d stop in to say hi --”

“Slash get discounts on great coffee,” interrupts Eponine.

“-- but now we really must go. Right, Enjolras?”

“Huh?” says Enjolras. He looks away from Grantaire, quickly, and shakes himself visibly. “I mean, yes, see you guys later.”

“You can count on it,” says Eponine.

“Is that a promise?” calls Grantaire, managing to get his voice functioning again. “Because I don’t think my heart could take any more broken promises, Apollo!”

Enjolras doesn’t look over his shoulder. “Goodbye, Grantaire!”

Grantaire watches him round the corner in his fabulously tight and well fitting trousers, before collapsing across the counter and sighing. “Do not say anything,” he tells Eponine.

“I’m not saying anything,” says Eponine. “But get up--we have work.”

Grantaire shakes his head at her but does as she asks, tugging his phone free to see what Enjolras’ text had even said.

 _Why?_ it says, which is rather anticlimactic seeing as Grantaire had been able to witness firsthand the face Enjolras made when he sent it. He supposes that it’s because of that face, that he is able to hear the exact shade of caution that the word would be delivered with.

 _Just wondering_ , Grantaire types back. He doesn’t think it’s been enough time for Enjolras, Combeferre, and Jehan to have arrived back on campus.

He’s proven right, a few moments later, when his phone lights up with a new text from Enjolras. _Well, stop_ , it reads.

It’s enough to startle a laugh out of Grantaire. “Oh, Apollo,” he says to himself. “You really don’t know how to leave well enough alone.” _You’re not the boss of me_ , he replies.

“Grantaire!” shouts Eponine. “Stop texting your boyfriend and work!”

Grantaire snaps his head up to glare at her. “You’re not the boss of me either,” he says.

Eponine comes to stand behind him. “No,” she says. “But I know the boss of you.” She stops to tug the hand holding the phone up to her face to read it. “Oh you did not,” she says.

“What?” says Grantaire, when Enjolras replies.

 _I have nothing to say to that_ , he’s said.

Grantaire sends back, _Speechless already? That has to be a first._

“You are goading him,” says Eponine. “He’s going to realize it’s you.”

Grantaire frowns. “You think so?” he says. “Do I have that distinct of a way of talking to him?”

Eponine gapes at him “You’re not serious, are you?” she says.

Grantaire looks blankly back at her.

“Wow, okay, give me the phone.”

“Why?” says Grantaire, slowly.

“Just give me the phone.”

“ _Why_?” Grantaire repeats. Eponine grabs for it and he manages to keep it away from her.

“Grantaire!” she says, exasperated. She grabs the hand with the phone with one hand and shoves the other across his face. “I swear to _god_ \--”

“Okay, I’ll come back,” says their latest customer. “Since you all seem rather busy.”

Eponine and Grantaire both freeze, horrified, until Cosette steps around them and up to the counter. “Ignore them,” she says, kindly. “What can I get you?”

They don’t unfreeze until Cosette has made the woman her coffee, complimented her on her shoes, and sent her on her way with probably quite the crush.

 “I’ll take that,” says Cosette, plucking the phone out from Grantaire and Eponine’s fingers and putting it into one of her apron pockets. She leaves them, still frozen, to answer the shop phone.

Grantaire exchanges a look with Eponine.

“So, truce?” he says.

“Yeah,” she says. “Shake on it?”

They take their still grasping hands and turn it into a handshake, before stepping free of each other’s personal bubbles and trying in vain to make it look like they’ve not been wrestling each other.

“So, um,” says Grantaire. “About the text.”

Eponine raises an eyebrow.

“Maybe, um, I do need your help?”

She blinks at him, and then grins. “You do, don’t you?”

“Yes?” Grantaire yelps, when Eponine grabs him by the arm and hauls him over to the counter.

“You better bring your game, R,” she says. “Because Enjolras will never know what hit him.”

Grantaire thinks, momentarily, that perhaps he has made a terrible mistake, but he very quickly forgets about it in the surge of customers.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://zimriya.tumblr.com/).


	3. Part the third

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what I did with my creativity: wrote notfics on all the [piningjolras fics](http://zimriya.tumblr.com/post/53244352678/the-epic-piningjolras-notfic-headcanon-post-thing).
> 
> Sorry this took so long. Writers block, man.
> 
> Betaed by the lovely [decourfeynated](http://decourfeynated.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. All other mistakes are my own.

**3\. Part the third**

**\--**

“So first things first,” says Eponine. She moves over Grantaire’s legs to flop down across his chest, and the air in his lungs goes out in one great whoosh; the sketchbook in his hands shakes, and the half-assed doodle of Enjolras trapped in a beer bottle goes skewy. “Stop hogging the couch.”

“Thank you for that, Eponine,” says Grantaire. “I will never need to get a cat; I have you.”

“I’m doing you a favor,” says Eponine. “You keep killing your plants; God forbid someone give you an actual, real-life animal.”

Grantaire considers the flowers Cosette gave him a while back--they don’t really resemble flowers anymore, because he’d gotten lazy and used the water in the vase to paint with--and shrugs. “To be fair, you’re the ones who keep giving me plants.”

Eponine snorts. “Well we’re very limited on the giving front,” she says. “You’re such a packrat--and we can’t all win you over by giving you socks for every major holiday.”

Grantaire goes faintly pink and focuses extremely hard on the drawing in front of him. Enjolras has started looking less than impressed by being in the beer bottle, and it’s no small stretch to add himself, drunkenly holding it. “It was winter,” he says, with dignity. “And they were really nice socks.”

“I gave you an easel,” says Eponine. “That easel.” She points.

“So?”

“You use that easel all the time,” says Eponine. “Tell me Enjolras’ socks aren’t still sitting in a bag somewhere in your closet.”

“No,” says Grantaire, not meeting her eyes. “I’m, um, wearing them now.” He says the last bit in something of a rush, and Eponine blinks.

“What?” she says. “Care to repeat that?”

“Nope,” says Grantaire, picking up his pencil and starting another drawing.

Eponine takes a long swig from her own drink and leans over to watch, so Grantaire pauses.

“Have you invaded my house for a reason?” he asks, finally. There is only so much detail he can put into the curl of a lock of hair before it becomes apparent who he’s drawing, after all.

“Yes.”

“Care to tell me?”

“Can’t I just come home with you for the sake of old times?”

“You mean when we were living in that shitty apartment all of senior year,” Grantaire says dryly. “And you ended up sitting on me not because you were a horrible person but because our couch was actually a chair?”

“I loved that chair,” says Eponine.

“You hated that chair,” corrects Grantaire. “You set that chair on fire and danced around it when we graduated.”

Eponine pauses. “Oh yeah,” she says. “Yeah, and I made Joly play the violin.”

“And led everyone in a rousing rendition of Tom Lear,” continues Grantaire. “Someone ended up calling the cops.”

“Right,” says Eponine. “First time we all got stuck in a jail cell for a night.”

“And sadly not the last,” Grantaire points out, wryly.

Eponine smiles at him. “Tell me that didn’t work out to your advantage,” she says.

“He slept the entire time,” says Grantaire. “And I was incredibly drunk.”

Eponine snorts at him. “He’s a very pretty sleeper, R,” she says. “And don’t pretend you don’t think so. You’re probably drawing him now.”

Grantaire pauses in the middle of shading in Enjolras’ nose, and shuts the sketchbook.

Eponine gives him a knowing smirk.

“Shut up,” he snaps, ears flushing.

“You’re adorable,” says Eponine. “But I have, actually, come home with you for a reason.”

She reaches down underneath her to stick her hand into Grantaire’s pants’ pocket.

“Wow,” says Grantaire. “’Ponine, I don’t know if I’m ready for that kind of relationship--Combeferre and I are friends--”

Eponine sets down her bottle and smacks him. “Shut up,” she says, pulling out his phone. “And type.”

Grantaire takes the phone blankly, and unlocks it. He actually has a new text message from Enjolras. _I’m not sure you can be speechless over the phone_ , it reads.

Grantaire blinks. “That idiot,” he mutters, trying to pretend that his ears are not flushing hotly.

Eponine pokes him in the leg. “What’d he say?” she says.

Grantaire reads it back to her.

“Mmm,” says Eponine, swallowing another pull of her drink and setting it onto the coffee table with a very final-sounding thud. “Okay, so here’s what we’re going to do.”

Grantaire humors her and hums, while at the same time typing a response to Enjolras’ message.

 _Only you would say that_ , he replies.

The message he gets back is rather instant. _So you do work_ , it says. _Were you pestering me during your lunch break?_

 _Maybe..._ Grantaire’s lips quirk. _Does that make you all feel all warm and fuzzy inside?_ he replies.

Eponine reaches out to pluck the phone from his hands, and he squawks. “Hey!”

“You are terrible,” she tells him, letting the phone buzz once. “You are so lucky that I am here.” There’s a small beat where she reads the text. “I take it back,” she says, handing the phone back to him. “Enjolras wins. You’re perfect for eachother.”

 _Not particularly, no,_ Enjolras has written, possibly seriously. Grantaire should not find that nearly as adorable as he does.

“But, okay,” says Eponine. “We need a game-plan.”

Grantaire scowls at her. “We do not,” he says. “I have Courfeyrac as my inside man and a never ending supply of sass--Don’t look at me like that, you’re the one who said that first--I do not need your help.”

“No,” says Eponine. “You do. Particularly since if I don’t do something like this--”

She reaches out to take the phone back, types out, _I’m so very terribly in love with you that all of my friends have cavities,_ shows him the sentence, and hits send.

“--you would just continue to flirt at Enjolras until the end of time.”

Grantaire makes a wounded noise and gapes at her. “Eponine!” he hisses, grabbing the phone from her. _Sorry!_ he texts, frantically. _My friends are going to wish they had cavities when I’m through with them._

 _Um,_ Enjolras has written. _Okay?_

 _Again, sorry!_ Grantaire types back, flushing. “I hate you,” he tells Eponine. “I hate you so very, very much.”

“You love me,” Eponine replies. “Now here’s what you’re going to do.”

“No,” says Grantaire. “I do not need your help. You are an awful human being and you should go away.”

He tries to twist free of Eponine’s clutches, but she doesn’t let him. “Nope,” she says. “Nope, listen, what you’re going to do is give me this--” She takes the phone from him, and he sputters. “--And I am not going to give it back to you until he texts you.”

Grantaire pauses. “What would be the point of that?” he says, quietly.

“Well worst case scenario it turns out he doesn’t care if you’re possibly dead,” says Eponine, blunt as always. “But best case he proves us all wrong and actually cares about the random stranger who has been--” She breaks off to thumb through the sent messages. “Texting him about his birthmarks.”

There is a pause.

“What about his birthmarks?” says Eponine.

“None of your business,” says Grantaire, hotly. He takes the phone back from her. “And that will never work.”

“I’ll ask Combeferre,” says Eponine. “And yes it will. Trust me.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes at her, snags her bottle, and takes a long drink. “It won’t work,” he repeats, but ends up putting the phone down for the rest of their night.

Eponine ends up calling Feuilly and Bahorel, who are more than happy for a reason to not be grading papers or critiquing art, and play a rousing and terrifying game of drunken monopoly.

\--

Grantaire makes it four days without texting Enjolras. He’s proud of that, actually, and feeling somewhat gleeful when Courfeyrac storms into the cafe on the afternoon of that fourth day.

“You are welcome,” he says, shortly.

Grantaire blinks at him. “I’m sorry?”

“Give me my usual,” says Courfeyrac. “You are buying me drinks for the rest of your miserable life.”

“I’m sorry?” says Grantaire again.

“Don’t mind him,” says Eponine, from behind him. She moves towards the counter and goes to enter Courfeyrac’s usual order. “It’s very early for a Tuesday, you should be proud of him for actually being here.”

“It’s noon,” says Grantaire, at the same time Courfeyrac points at Eponine.

“You’re partially to blame for this,” he says. “I know you’re helping him with his Enjolras texting debacle.”

“Probably a good idea not to say that loudly in public,” says Eponine. “But yes.”

Courfeyrac’s shoulders loosen a bit. “Don’t worry,” he says. “Enjolras just spent the last five minutes frantically googling obituaries, I don’t think he’s coming to grab a coffee anytime soon?”

“Obituaries?” says Grantaire.

“You heard me,” says Courfeyrac. “You owe me.”

“What did you do?” says Eponine, sounding concerned. “Don’t you try to smile your way out of this one, Courfeyrac.”

“I am your inside man,” says Courfeyrac, with poise. “You owe me.”

“Yes, okay,” says Grantaire. “What do I owe you for?”

“I may have told Enjolras that it’s possibly that you are dead,” says Courfeyrac in a rush. “And that’s why you’re not responding.”

Grantaire blinks at him. “You might have done what?” he says.

Eponine is grinning. “That’s brilliant, actually,” she says. “Good thinking.” She reaches out to pat him on the back, and Courfeyrac does some sort of odd flinching thing before letting her do so.

“You--really?” he says.

“Not really,” says Eponine. She nudges Grantaire with her foot until he goes to make Courfeyrac his coffee. “But this one is somewhat addicted to the games on his phone, and I’m really getting tired of playing landlord.”

Grantaire puts a lid on Courfeyrac’s coffee and hands it to him. “I am a lovely guest,” he says, mock offended. “I’ll have you know.”

“No, I know _that_ ,” says Eponine. “But it’s been freaking four days, Grantaire. And I have needs.”

Courfeyrac gapes at her.

“What?” She raises an eyebrow at Courfeyrac. “Something to say, Courfeyrac?”

“No, I--” says Courfeyrac. “Nothing.” He takes a sip of his scalding coffee and swallows a yelp of pain. “I’m good,” he adds, hoarsely. “I’m going to go, now.”

“Have fun!” calls Eponine, after him. “Don’t kill any of your students!”

Courfeyrac flips her the bird, and she laughs, before fishing Grantaire’s phone out of her pocket and handing it to him.

“Oh, look,” she says, as it makes a buzzing noise. “Right on time.”

Grantaire takes it in his hand, wordlessly, and unlock sit. _Please tell me you aren’t dead_ , says the text message.

Grantaire stares at it blankly for a few seconds, and doesn’t respond.

_That was...tactless, I’m sorry._

He waits a few more seconds.

_But, um, you’re not, are you?_

Another few seconds; a customer comes in and Eponine takes care of his order with a bright smile.

_Hello?_

Grantaire considers letting him sit a bit more, but finds he can’t. _I’m not dead_ , he types. _I didn’t think you’d want to talk to me._

There’s a pause.

 _Oh._ And then, _Why not?_

Grantaire shakes his head at the phone. _I did sort of end up confessing my undying love to you,_ he types.

The reply comes slower, this time.

 _I thought you said that was your friends?_ Enjolras asks.

Grantaire shrugs, and figures why not. Enjolras will never know it’s him, and it’s not like anything will come of it.

 _Still true, though_ , he says.

 _Oh,_ Enjolras replies. _That’s, um._

Grantaire brings a hand up to run through his hair. _I’m just kidding_ , he texts. _You can breathe again._

 _I never stopped breathing,_ Enjolras texts back quickly, but somehow Grantaire can see the relief.

 _Uh huh,_ he replies. _If you say so._

 _Well, if you’re not dead_ , Enjolras begins. _I actually have to get back to work._

 _Okay,_ says Grantaire, before his brain kicks in. _Wait, were you texting me during class?_

Another slightly more awkward pause. _We’re doing group work._

 _You were?_ texts Grantaire, gleeful. He feels eyes on him and looks up to see Eponine, watching him.

 _Thanks_ , he mouths, and then says. She slaps a hand to her heart dramatically and falls to the side, so he rolls his eyes at her and turns back to this phone.

_It’s not that big of a deal._

_No,_ Grantaire agrees. _But you being worried about me dying is. It’s almost sweet, Enjolras._

_How do you know my_

The text breaks off, and Grantaire wonders if Enjolras hit send accidentally.

_It’s not unreasonable to worry about people dying. And also, are you going to tell me who you are, now?_

_Nope._

_Worth a shot,_ Enjolras replies. Grantaire can just picture the smile on his face. _I do have to go, though._

_Okay._

_Will I be hearing from you again?_

Grantaire stares down at the message for a long moment, brow furrowed. _Is this your sneaky way of making sure I don’t go dark on you again?_ he asks. _Because it’s not very sneaky._

 _On second thought, I wish you had died,_ Enjolras sends, sounding amused, and Grantaire grins the entire day.

\--

Grantaire is in the middle of making dinner when Feuilly calls him in something of a panic. He calls the landline, and he’s not at all happy about that.

“--I don’t see why you can’t just give me your number, anyway?” he is in the middle of ranting. “It’s not like I’m even in the same building as Enjolras, and besides, why would he think to search my phone for you? For all you know, you’re in my phone as Garnet or some shit.” Grantaire makes an obliging noise and continues staring at his spice cabinet.

“Feuilly,” he interrupts, not that concerned. “This is fascinating and really very telling of our friendship, but since when do I have a spice cabinet?”

His friend stops talking. “Since always?” he says finally. “Since Joly got fed up with how you can’t find anything in your apartment and stress cleaned it all in one weekend?”

Grantaire blinks. “Since what?” he says.

“A month ago?” continues Feuilly. “You and Enjolras got banged up in a bar fight and no one could find any first aid stuff?”

Grantaire doesn’t remember much of that night, except some asshole deciding that making an asinine comment about the state of world politics in front of Enjolras was a good idea, and his own very visceral reaction to watching those perfect cheekbones get punched.

Feuilly appears to be waiting for some kind of confirmation.

“Oh, um,” Grantaire says. “Okay?”

“What does this have to do with your phone?”

“Oh nothing,” says Grantaire. “You caught me in the middle of making dinner, is all.” He grabs the black pepper off the shelf and sets it down on his kitchen counter. At his side, his phone dings. It’s probably Enjolras.

Grantaire reaches over with his free hand to drag the phone over. “Hold on,” he tells Feuilly. “It’s Enjolras.”

“Wow,” says Feuilly. “I feel so loved, R.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes at him and unlocks the phone. _What are you making?_ it reads. Somewhere along the line, the texts from Enjolras started become something of a regular thing, to the point where he doesn’t do more than smile when he sees one. (His stomach still does an awful swooping thing, but that happens when he actually see Enjolras in real life, so he’s not counting it.)

 _Burgers_ , he types back, half listening to Feuilly complain down the line at him. _Are you still grading papers?_

 _Term papers,_ Enjolras agrees. _They’re awful._

 _Come now, Enjolras,_ Grantaire types. _Don’t be mean. They’re college students!_

“--and also you really should just tell him who you are,” Feuilly is saying in his ear.

Grantaire sighs. “Not happening,” he says. “He’d never speak to me again.”

“Well, not with that attitude, no,” says Feuilly.

“Not ever,” repeats Grantaire. “Now, is there a reason you’re calling me--?”

“Would you mind subbing for some art classes?” says Feuilly, sounding apologetic. “Just, the higher level ones. There’s a bit of a stomach bug going around, and we’re short.”

Grantaire blinks. “There’s a stomach bug going around and you want me to come spend hours of my life there?”

“Please?” Feuilly still sounds sorry, but he hasn’t given up, so Grantaire doesn’t do more than sigh.

“Fine,” he says. “But you’ll owe me.”

“Thanks, R,” says Feuilly. “You’re a lifesaver.”

Grantaire uses the hand holding his cell phone to gesture in the air. “Yeah, yeah,” he says. “But in all seriousness, how much am I going to hate you after?”

“Um,” says Feuilly. “Well, see, they’re the upper level classes--”

“Feuilly,” interrupts Grantaire. He gives the bugger in front of him a long look, before flipping it. “Do I really have to remind you all the things we did when we were in those same ‘upper level classes’?”

Feuilly is silent for a moment. “Thank you so much, Grantaire, I will owe you,” he says, in a rush, and then hangs up.

Grantaire is left grinning and shaking his head at his stove.

\--

He gets stuck on clean up duty the next day. Eponine strides into the men’s bathroom, catches him unawares with his trousers down, and tells him.

“Cosette and I are going home,” she says.

Grantaire, currently in the process of attempting to zip up and also not look at much of anything, only really manages to get her name out. “Eponine!”

She rolls her eyes at him--he assumes, that is, since he refuses to meet her eyes--and says, “did you hear me?”

Grantaire heads over to the sink to wash his hands. “Yes, Eponine!” he says, somewhat shrilly. “I heard you.”

“Good.” She makes to leave, and Grantaire levels a glare at her. “What?”

“I closed up the other day,” he says.

“You had help,” points out Eponine.

“You don’t count as help,” says Grantaire, grabbing a paper towel and wiping his hands. “Particularly when you spend the entire time lounging in the empty chairs fiddling with my phone. Now get the door.”

Eponine pulls it open with a raised eyebrow, and Grantaire exits with as much dignity as he can manage. When he reaches the cafe, he doesn’t find it nearly as empty as he expected, and any and all arguments why he should not be the one forced to stay late and clean up die on his tongue.

In the corner, at his usual table, with a pen between his teeth and his glasses barely hanging onto his nose, is Enjolras. He has about three unfinished cups of coffee scattered around him, a stack of papers that are probably bigger than Grantaire’s head, and his phone appears to have been flung across the shop. As Grantaire watches, blankly, Enjolras somehow manages to get up, retrieve the phone with his foot, and sit back down, all without visibly breathing or looking away from the paper’s he’s reading.

“So I’m closing tonight,” says Grantaire, without looking away.

Eponine pats him on the back, hard. “I knew you’d see it my way,” she says. “Cosette!”

Cosette appears at the counter, apron off and hair down, with a bright smile. “Goodnight, Enjolras,” she says, kindly. “Try not to stay up too late.”

Enjolras doesn’t appear to hear her, but when she pauses to press a kiss to his cheek, he manages a smile.

Grantaire watches and pretends that he’s not holding back his own smile in response, until Eponine thwacks him on the back of the head on her way towards Cosette and the door. “Don’t get robbed again, R,” she says.

The door closes behind the two of them with the usual bell, and Grantaire waits about five seconds for the floor to swallow him whole.

“You were robbed?” says Enjolras, finally, around the pen. Grantaire isn’t quite sure how he’s doing that, but he also does not want to start staring at Enjolras’ mouth for long periods of time. Although.

He comes around to sit across from Enjolras and steeples his fingers in front of him. Enjolras can’t see, because Enjolras still has his stack of papers, but Grantaire likes the way it makes him feel.

“What, Grantaire?” says Enjolras, finally, after a few moments of Grantaire just staring at him. His voice comes out tired, and Grantaire winces.

“Nothing,” he says, feeling bad. He unsteeples his fingers and moves to get up, but Enjolras stops him with a hand on his arm.

“No,” he says. “Stay, you--”

Grantaire slides back down into the seat mindlessly, heart thumping in his chest.

“I could use a distraction,” Enjolras decides, finally.

“And I’m the best one you could have,” Grantaire puts in, just a touch self-deprecating. He knows it, and he regrets it, and nearly misses the way Enjolras’ eyes narrow in response. “No, but,” he says, because it’s heady to have all of Enjolras’ perfect attention on him and his leg is seriously about to shake it’s way off, “you don’t seem like you need a distraction.”

Enjolras’ eyes slide down to the stack of term-papers, over the coffee cups, and back to Grantaire.

“Your pen is upside down, is all,” says Grantaire, frantically. “You’re probably getting lead poisoning -- or at least, your mouth is going to end up blue.”

Enjolras looks down at the pen in his mouth, and flushes a little.

“Oh wow,” says Grantaire, stupidly. “You must be tired.”

Enjolras is outwardly calm, but the slight tightening of his jaw does not go unnoticed by Grantaire. “I’m not,” says Enjolras, defensively.

Grantaire makes an agreeing noise and leans back a bit in his seat. The moves pushes their feet together so that the soles of Grantaire’s converse are knocking up against the too shiny black of Enjolras’ dress shoes.

“You’re way too dressed up,” points out Grantaire. “For a coffee shop.”

Enjolras raises an eyebrow and opens his mouth to speak, but Grantaire sticks out a hand to stop him.

“If you’re about to say something pretentious and turn my own words back on me stop right there,” he says, loudly, and Enjolras’ eyes dart around the empty cafe on reflex, “because that is the exact opposite of taking a break.”

Enjolras actually raises both of his hands, amused, and leans back in his own seat to regard Grantaire. “Alright,” he concedes. “Distract me.”

What follows is probably the most uncomfortable silence of Grantaire’s life, wherein all the terrible bad jokes he has ever accumulated in his life flash before his eyes and Enjolras just stares back at him daring him to say anything.

“Okay,” Grantaire says, finally, too many seconds later. “So, um, tell me about the term papers.”

Enjolras looks down at the one he’s in the middle of grading, and scowls. “That’s not distracting me, that’s giving me a headache--” he tries to say.

“No, hold on,” says Grantaire. “Bear with me.”

Enjolras stops, and stares at him with his lips quirked, as if to say, _Go on._

Grantaire cannot remember the last time he had this much of his attention focused on him. His voice, when he finds it, is a bit rough. “Tell me about the girl who wrote it,” he says.

Enjolras blinks. “What makes you think it’s a girl?” he asks, slowly.

Grantaire rakes his eyes up and down his torso with a grin. “What,” he says. “Are you suggesting that you actually get students who aren’t in it for the way you pull off a tie?”

Enjolras shakes his head. “Shut up,” he says, but without the usual underlying tension. “You sound like Courfeyrac.”

Grantaire just smiles wider. “Is that supposed to wound me, Apollo?” he says.

Enjolras’ mouth stutters open, and all of a sudden his cheeks are flushing faintly.

Grantaire blinks, startled. “I --” he says.

Enjolras reaches out for the papers in front of him and picks up the first one. “So, um, Méline,” he says. “She, um,” he says. “She’s in my class?”

Grantaire looks at him, and takes pity on him. He reaches out to take him by the arm. “Come on, up,” he says.

Enjolras stares back at him, blankly, but he lets Grantaire hoist him upwards. “Where are we going?” he says.

“You’re exhausted,” says Grantaire, not meeting Enjolras’ eyes and also not thinking about how warm his arm is where Grantaire’s fingers are coiled. “And I’m bored, so I’m going to introduce you to my favorite, horrible, no good drink to make when I close.”

Enjolras sounds amused. “Okay?” he says.

“And then you’re going to pack up, and I’m going to put on some obscenely popular music, and we are going to put the tables up and deal with the money business.”

Enjolras follows him around to the cups and espresso machine easily, and he stays where Grantaire puts him. “We?” he says.

“Well, obviously,” says Grantaire. “We wouldn’t want me to get robbed.”

He looks at Enjolras’ face--amused, with the faint hint of a smile curling around his lips and an odd look in his eyes, and is suddenly incredibly self-conscious.

“Um,” he says. “Unless you have somewhere to be?”

Enjolras reaches out and picks up an empty coffee cup and presents it to him. “No,” he says. “Not at all.”

\--

Twenty minutes later, Grantaire emerges from the cafe with his heart thudding and the newfound knowledge that Enjolras can rock out to most of the Top 40 radio, to a text message.

 _How do you know if you like someone?_ it says. Grantaire stares at it, blinks at it, re-reads it furiously, and very slowly goes to put his phone to his ear. It buzzes before he can.

  _That was stupid of me, never mind_ , Enjolras has written. _I, um. I should probably ask someone I actually know, yeah?_

He sounds just teasing enough that Grantaire types back, _Nice try, again, but no dice._

 _Worth a shot,_ says Enjolras. _Goodnight._

 _You too,_ Grantaire manages, jittery on more than the late-night espresso, and dials Eponine.

“Yeah, ‘Ponine?” he says. “We have a problem.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~In other news, I'm writing a Hogwarts AU.~~
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://zimriya.tumblr.com/).


	4. Part the fourth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betaed by the lovely [decourfeynated](http://decourfeynated.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, with content stuff by Flamingo. All other mistakes are my own.

**4\. Part the fourth.**

\--

“You cannot be serious,” says Grantaire, when he shows up outside the studio the first day.

“Sadly I am completely serious,” says Feuilly. “And before you try to weasel out of this by playing the Eponine card, remember that I was the one who had to come scrape your sorry ass off of her floor last night.”

Grantaire makes a face.

“No,” says Feuilly. “You are not getting out of this--you agreed!”

Grantaire looks between his friend and the classroom. It’s your usual art studio building, big walls, lots of easels, some tables, and more art supplies than the store Grantaire’s hometown had. People had often wondered why he’d come out of studio with more colored pencils than he could conceivably carry. Obviously, they’d never been in a college art studio.

The room is quiet, filled with people frantically finishing portfolios and sketching on too big pieces of paper, but what catches Grantaire’s attention is the student sitting on top of one of the desks.

Feuilly, seeing where he’s looking, colors slightly. “Well, we’re all slightly eccentric, yes?” he says. “Isn’t that what you said Freshman year?”

Grantaire looks between Feuilly and the man on the table. “Yes,” he says, slowly. “But that was mainly because I spent most of Freshman year making horrible forgeries of great painters.”

“Oh yeah,” says Feuilly, sounding faint. “Yeah--that’s probably why you almost failed Freshman art.”

“To Eponine’s eternal glee,” agrees Grantaire. “It will never not be the first thing she tells anyone remotely interested in my art.”

“But to be fair,” says Feuilly, “the reason you didn’t fail Freshman art was that professor Brevet couldn’t tell the difference between your so called ‘terrible forgery’ and the real thing.”

“True,” says Grantaire. “And they were terrible, come on.”

“Right,” says Feuilly, dryly. “But, um.” He pauses, awkwardly, and reaches out to put a hand on Grantaire’s shoulder. Grantaire had put on some sort of a suit and tie thing and a blazer on top of that this morning, so the heat of Feuilly’s palm is less than it would be if he was wearing his usual t-shirt. “You’re okay, right?”

Grantaire pastes a smile on his face. “Of course,” he says, brightly. “Why would I not be?”

Feuilly raises both of his eyebrows. “We’re doing this?” he says. “Really?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” says Grantaire. “But I have to go teach a class--”

“R,” says Feuilly. “Tell him.”

Grantaire shakes his head at. “Tell him what?” he says, sharply.

“Tell him it’s you,” says Feuilly, undeterred by the venom in Grantaire’s voice. Grantaire knows he can hear it, since Feuilly had been there when Grantaire had learned how to use his words instead of fists to get results.

“And what?” says Grantaire. “He’ll never speak to me again.”

“Grantaire--”

“I’ve got to go, Feuilly,” says Grantaire. His tongue is no less sharp, but something in Feuilly’s face makes Grantaire lower his voice. “I’ll think about it.”

“You’re lying to me,” says Feuilly.

“Yes,” says Grantaire.

His friend laughs. “Well, at least you’re honest,” he says. “Have you been texting Enjolras back?”

Grantaire is silent.

“Jesus,” says Feuilly. “R, he’s not going to hate you--”

“Goodbye, Feuilly!” says Grantaire. “Teaching!”

He heads for the classroom, shoulders settling back and stride changing ever so slightly so that he looks just an edge more professional, and walks through the door.

“Okay, kiddos,” he says, loudly, making most of the apparent upper-level art students jump. “Who here thinks they can forge a Manet better than I?”

He thinks he hears Feuilly snickering in the hallway, but most of that is swallowed up by the students’ awkward protestations and, from the guy on the table, raised eyebrows.

“I can,” he says.

Grantaire blinks. “I like you,” he decides, and then turns to the rest of the class. “Hi. I’m Grantaire, and I’m going to be your substitute teacher for the rest of the week.”

He nods, taking in the way the people around him all look a little bit jittery from too much coffee and not enough sleep--how the girl in the cute, green sweater dress has been continuing to paint and the boy with the too-loud music keeps getting clay in his headphones.

“Erm,” says one of them. “Hello?”

Grantaire brings his hands together and claps. “Right,” he says. “Who wants to show me what they’re working on first?”

The guy from before raises his hand.

“Awesome,” says Grantaire. “This is going to be fun.”

\--

“This is awful,” Grantaire tells Combeferre. He’d come straight to the man’s office after class let out, and has been slowly but steadily making an army of paper cranes out of the recyclable paper. Every so often, Grantaire will reach for one of the essays Combeferre is grading, and the man will slap him his hands, but for the most part he lets him talk. “Combeferre,” complains Grantaire. “You’re not listening to me.”

“It’s awful,” says Combeferre. “You’re surrounded by talented people so much younger than you.”

Grantaire glares at him, until the man sighs, and puts the paper down.

“They’re not actually that much younger than you,” Combeferre points out.

“Shut up!” says Grantaire.

“Or that much more talented than you are,” continues Combeferre, undeterred. “So I think we need to talk about what’s actually bothering you, which would be Enjolras.”

Grantaire gapes at him, very suddenly feeling betrayed, and gets to his feet. “No,” he says. “No thank you. Not happening. Goodbye!”

He heads for the door and gets about three steps down the hall when he spots Jehan, who waves. A few moments later, Courfeyrac and Enjolras come into sight. Luckily, neither of them notice him; Enjolras is too busy scowling down at a stack of papers in his hands, and Courfeyrac appears to be schooling him.

“One day you’re going to be glaring down at some poor undergrad’s paper and you’re going to walk off a bridge and _die_ with that expression on your face,” Courfeyrac is saying. “And it is not a lovely expression for your face, Enjolras.”

“Actually, I think your facial muscles would relax--” Jehan tries to interject.

“You have so many expressions to chose from, some of which are actually very nice--”

 Jehan stops waving at Grantaire to tap Courfeyrac quickly on the shoulder.

The man looks up, curious, and stops. He sees Grantaire almost instantly, makes a terrified face, and manages not to make a sound. Grantaire very quickly backtracks into Combeferre’s office.

“So Enjolras,” says Combeferre.

“Hide me,” says Grantaire.

“No, I’m pretty sure Combeferre said he was too busy to go out tonight!” says Courfeyrac, loudly, from down the hallway.

Combeferre’s eyebrows climb.

“Why are you shouting?” comes Enjolras’ voice.

“No reason!”

“Courfeyrac--”

Grantaire debates leaping behind Combeferre’s desk. “Please?” he hisses. “Hide me?”

Combeferre sighs, but he gets to his feet and heads to close his door. Grantaire lets out a sigh of relief and sinks down into the chair he vacated earlier. He’s too soon--the door halts in its closing by a well-placed, well-dressed foot.

“Nice try,” says Enjolras, and then probably frowns when instead of sighing and pushing open the door, Combeferre steps into the narrow space and holds it closed. “Combeferre?”

“Hi,” says Combeferre. “I am actually busy, as Courfeyrac said.”

Enjolras scoffs. Grantaire can hear him from his place bent awkwardly away from the hallway. He considers holding his breath, but thinks better of it because that would be stupid.

“Yeah, right,” says Enjolras. “I know for a fact that you finished more than half your grading yesterday--you can spare one night out.”

Grantaire blinks. Enjolras wants to go out? Enjolras? Dress shirt wearing, pea coat owning, what-do-you-mean-I-look-ridiculous-this-scarf-was-five-dollars Enjolras? The same man who once refused drinks with Grantaire and Eponine by staring them down? Granted, staring Grantaire down, since Eponine made a point not to get caught up in what she called, ‘lovers’ spats,’ but _still_. That same Enjolras? Wanting to go out? Grantaire isn’t sure what to do with that.

“You want to go out?” says Combeferre, because he is an awesome friend. He sounds both incredulous and amused, and Grantaire is very glad that he met him through Enjolras.

Courfeyrac sounds like he’s choking, and somebody pats him on the back. “Yes?” Enjolras says over the noise. “Is that such a big deal?”

“No, no,” says Combeferre. “No it’s not a big deal at all.”

“Unexpected,” puts in Jehan.

“Unheard of, more like,” adds Courfeyrac, hoarsely. “But pleasant, overall. Shall I call the others?”

“Shall you call R, is more like,” says Combeferre.

Grantaire takes back everything he ever said about Combeferre being a nice, decent friend. If he wasn’t currently hiding out in his office, he’d probably do something about that. Like steal his car. Or tell Eponine. He’s not sure which is worse.

“No, don’t,” says Enjolras, quickly, at the same time Courfeyrac laughs, anxiously.

“I think he’s busy,” he says. “Feuilly said--”

“Feuilly is a horrible liar,” says Bahorel, loudly, and Grantaire doesn’t have to work hard to hear his shoes on the floor. “And therefore his word means nothing.” His footsteps come to a halt. “What are we talking about?”

Courfeyrac is quiet for a moment. “Erm,” he says. “Enjolras wants to get drinks?”

Bahorel pauses. “He--really?”

“Is it that ridiculous?” protests Enjolras. “It’s the end of the year--of _course_ I want to get drinks!”

“No, no, this is a new thing,” says Bahorel. “You refused to go out with us last year--”

“Last year I had a thing,” says Enjolras, shortly, and the hallway goes somewhat silent.

Grantaire remembers Enjolras’ thing, because the man had come into the cafe early that morning, ordered his usual coffee, and then stood inside the door for a few minutes until a woman tried to walk into him. And later that night when he showed up to the bar where their friends were, he ended getting punched in the face and spending the night in a jail cell with Grantaire.

He winces.

“The point is it’s a surprise,” continues Bahorel. He sounds somewhat apologetic, so Grantaire won’t be punching him in the face.

“Yeah, well.” Enjolras sounds sheepish. “I just spent three hours poring over term papers. I think I’m allowed to relax.”

“Okay,” says Combeferre.

Grantaire had forgotten he was there.

“So, someone call Grantaire--” Bahorel starts to say.

“No, don’t,” says Enjolras, and all of a sudden he sounds terrified.

Grantaire’s knees, which had started to unlock, very slowly tense up again. He can feel every hair on the back of his neck stand to attention, and he wants to be anywhere but where he is.

“He, um,” says Enjolras. “I mean, he’s probably busy?”

Courfeyrac makes a noise of agreement, but Grantaire can hear the anxious laughter lying underneath. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, Feuilly said he’d be busy all week te--”

“Yes,” says Bahorel, “but as I said before, Feuilly is a liar.”

No one talks for a moment.

A few seconds later, Feuilly’s footsteps come clamoring down the hall. “Don’t listen to him!” he shouts. “Nothing he says can be trusted!”

Grantaire considers getting to his feet and escaping in the chaos, but Combeferre’s office doesn’t have a window, because Combeferre’s office is a joke.

“What?” says Jehan, finally. “Maybe we should relocate somewhere--”

“No, come on, I want to hear this,” interjects Bahorel. “Why no R? He knows the best places--he’s our ticket in.”

“Technically Eponine--” Enjolras tries to say.

“Technically nothing,” says Bahorel. “Spill.”

Grantaire really would rather not be hearing this conversation.

“Does there have to be a reason?” says Enjolras.

“Can we not do this here?” says Jehan

“We could move inside Combeferre’s office--” tries Enjolras.

“No,” shouts Courfeyrac and Combeferre at the same time.

“I mean, no,” says Courfeyrac, “because it’s not that big of a deal. Grantaire is probably really busy.” His voice goes somewhat high at the end, and Grantaire is seriously considering getting up and ending the charade if only to save himself the _headache_.

“Right, but,” says Bahorel.

“Bahorel let it go,” mutters Grantaire, quietly. He gets to his feet, hands itching for something to do--he’ll go home and paint something and probably ruin a wall--but stops, breath catching, when Enjolras says, “Do I need a reason to not want him around?”

All of the air rushes out of Grantaire’s lungs in a great whoosh of air, and it takes him longer than he’d expected to bring some of it back in.

Combeferre lets the door swing open dramatically, and Grantaire pastes a smile onto his face.

“Jehan,” he says, addressing the first person he sees.

His friend looks horrified, face caught in some sort of terrible caricature of pity, and Grantaire moves over him quickly.

“Feuilly, Bahorel, Courfeyrac.” He pauses. “Apollo.” He can’t quite meet Enjolras’ eyes. “I’ve actually got to be going, now,” he says. “So I’ll see you later.”

And then he’s shoving his way through his friends, flinching away from Enjolras’ hands, and ignoring the shout of his name in favor of making it to the door.

It’s hard.

He really needs a drink.

\--

What Grantaire is not going to do, he decides, is go to the nearest bar and get smashed. He can barely get his hands to stop shaking long enough to get his keys into the ignition, so he figures his best bet is to go home.

When he gets there, he raids his liquor cabinet, curses whoever drained it (Courfeyrac, maybe?), thanks whoever had the decency to leave him the good stuff (definitely Eponine), and  sinks down onto the couch.

“Well, I’m fucked,” he says into the silence.

His phone dings, and he slides it out of his pocket to set it on his chest. _Courfeyrac_ , it says.

Grantaire glares at it for a bit, before sliding it unlocked.

 _Enjolras is an idiot!_ the text message says. _He’s also really sorry!_

There are three more:

 

_A sorry idiot!_

_Idiotic, but also apologetic!_

_Call him!_

Grantaire glares down at the messages and takes his first swig from the bottle. _No thanks_ , he texts Courfeyrac.

_Grantaire!_

_No._

_Fine_ , Courfeyrac relents, but slowly; Grantaire wonders who he’s calling over to text him next. _But only because I love you_.

 _More like, because you drank all of my alcohol, asshole_ , Grantaire types back. He debates grabbing shot glasses, for at least the pretense of caring, but ultimately can’t be bothered to get up.

There’s a short pause; Grantaire drinks another, burning sip.

 _Maybe_.

He laughs.

A few seconds later, his phone dings again. It’s Bahorel this time.

_Look, R, I’m really sorry._

Grantaire blinks. _Courfeyrac told you,_ he says. And then, _Courfeyrac is an awful inside man--tell him I said that_.

Bahorel’s reply sounds amused. _Courfeyrac says he’ll buy you some of the good stuff._

Grantaire smirks. _Tell him he’s forgiven_.

His phone dings again, twice this time, and he has two messages

 _< 3_ Courfeyrac has sent him.

_Told him._

_Good._

Grantaire takes a sip, and looks at his easel, where the painting from earlier sits and looks sad. The woman had wanted the universe, and Grantaire had said he could do that. But what’s on the canvas isn’t the universe, not even close. It’s a poor representation, several layers of blue-black with dottings of stars--he’ll give it to her tomorrow, and she’s smile and say it’s lovely, but Grantaire will know better.

 _Why can’t I paint the universe?_ he asks Bahorel.

His friend takes a moment to respond. _What?_

 _The universe_ , Grantaire repeats. _I can see it in my mind everytime I close my eyes, but when I try to put it to paper it falls flat._

 _Okay, either you’re incredibly drunk_ , says Bahorel, _and I’m not. Or I’m incredibly drunk and you’re just--maudlin._

 _Maudlin,_ repeats Grantaire.

 _Hey, I’m a lawyer_.

_A bad one._

_The best one--got your sorry ass out of jail multiple times._

Grantaire rolls his eyes. _Once_ , he says.

_Twice._

_Twice?_

_The one with you and Enjolras? You’re adorable when you’re sleeping, by the way._

Grantaire blinks down at that text message and very slowly, and carefully, hits delete. _Oh yeah._

_Anyway, we all miss you._

A beat.

_Even the sulking one._

_The sulking one?_ Grantaire really wishes he could put into written words just how unimpressed he is, but he can’t. Maybe he should call Bahorel? He’s dialing before he can think better of it.

“Hey?” says Bahorel, sounding cautious.

“The sulking one?” he repeats, for full effect.

“Yes?”

“You’re awful.” Grantaire hangs up.  _Is Combeferre comforting him_? he types out with one hand, slowly, while continuing on his journey to drain the bottle.

_No, actually. Eponine wouldn’t let him. Said she wanted to dance._

_Combeferre can’t dance_.

_No._

“Mm,” says Grantaire. He might not be getting shot glasses, but the wall housing the Friendship Chart is looking lonely. And white. And clean. Come to think of it, most of his apartment is spotless.

 _Joly_ , he texts. _I thought I told you the key was for emergencies_.

_Excuse me?_

Grantaire sighs, rolling his eyes. _This is R. New phone, remember_

_Oh._

Grantaire uses the moment of silence to grab a handful of paint brushes, some paint, and the vase with the flowers Jehan gave him. Jehan won’t mind. Grantaire will paint him flowers on the wall, and those will be forever.

 _I don’t know what you mean_ , says Joly.

 _Nice try_ , says Grantaire.

 _The state of your apartment is a health hazard_ , argues Joly. _I am doing you a favor. And anyone you decide to have over._

Grantaire blinks down at the phone.

_So really, I did it for Enjolra_

The text message cuts off, and Grantaire waits a bit.

 _Sorry_! _Musichetta and Eponine took my phone,_ comes through when he’s picking colors.

 _You gave Joly your number?!_ shows up when he’s patting a yellow-green blotch onto the wall.

 _It’s over, Eponine_ , Grantaire texts back, before hitting call. “Now leave me be--I am making a masterpiece.”

He curls a vine around one of the pictures on his wall, and with a second glance, adds the underpainting for some thorns. He can add blood, later.

“For Jehan,” he adds. “Ask him what his favorite color is.”

“Grantaire--”

“Please, ‘Ponine?”

She pauses. “You’re not even drunk,” she says.

He sighs. “No.”

“Jesus.”

“Not quite.” He laughs, which sounds awful to even his own ears, and drinks to clear his throat. It doesn’t help.

“The day I go around saying his name like he’s the lord personified is the day hell freezes over,” says Eponine.

“Probably not good, yeah,” agrees Grantaire. “Given that you’re dating his best friend.”

“The best friend can hear you,” says Combeferre, dryly.

“Oh, hello,” says Grantaire. “Eponine--”

“If I release him he will go try to make Enjolras feel better,” says Eponine, reasonably. “And as Enjolras is a giant _douchenozzle_ and _needs to apologize_ I refuse to do so.” She raises her voice at the appropriate moments, and Grantaire can just picture the truly flaming color of Enjolras’ face.

“Douchenozzle?” says Courfeyrac.

“Needs to apologize?” says Grantaire.

“I thought worse,” says Eponine. “Stop sulking!”

Enjolras’ voice comes drifting over. “I’m not sulking.”

“He is sulking,” says Eponine. “But what he should be, is _apologizing_!”

There’s a beat.

“Look away all you want, Enjolras!” shouts Eponine. “I know where you live.”

Someone makes a noise like they’ve got something in their mouth.

“Courfeyrac lives with you!” continues Eponine.

“I do!” shouts Courfeyrac, sounding like he’s just finished swallowing a mouthful of alcohol. “Fucking apologize!”

“Eponine!”

“Ah!” says Courfeyrac. “He’s resisting, everybody drink!”

There’s a beat, and then a cheer, and silence.

“This is a stupid game,” says Jehan, finally.

“You’re just jealous you didn’t think up with it,” says Courfeyrac.

“What the fuck are you guys doing?” says Grantaire, finally.

Eponine is quiet for a second. “Drinking game,” she says. “To pass the time. Also, it’s surprisingly boring without you here to convince the fearless leader to live a little.” The phone makes a rustling noise. “Seriously, Grantaire, he really didn’t mean it and I think you could probably solve the problem by telling him all about your late night messages--”

“Goodbye, Eponine!”

“No, wait!”

He pauses.

“What are you doing, exactly?”

“Well I thought I was getting drunk,” he says, giving the still half full bottle in his hand a shake. “But mostly I think I’m redecorating.”

“Redecorating,” says Eponine.

“Well I can’t paint the universe, so I’m settling for flowers.”

“Flowers.”

“The universe,” says Combeferre. “What are you, some sort of poet?”

“Oh god,” says Grantaire. “What if I am? What if it’s contagious--I spent an entire shift bugging Jehan, yesterday, Eponine how long do I have to live?”

“Are you sure you’re not drunk?” says Eponine, but she sounds amused, and just a touch pitying.

“No,” says Grantaire, seriously. “But redecorating.”

“Okay,” continues his friend. “Can you give me twenty minutes to find a reason to escape these idiots?”

Not pitying, then, but understanding.

“I’m not drunk, ‘Ponine.”

“No,” agrees Eponine. She sounds like she’s getting to her feet. “No, that worries me more, actually.”

“What?” says Grantaire. “You think I’ll do something monumentally stupid sober?”

He waits.

“Eponine?”

“Well,” she says, finally. “To be fair this entire thing started when you were sober.”

“It was three in the morning.” He sets the paintbrush down on the floor and nudges it with his toes. The flowers don’t look much like flowers, and he can probably cover them up with actual paint tomorrow.

“So,” says Eponine. She’s made it out of the bar, and the sounds of the city around her are duller, but somehow more oppressive. “You do some of your best work at three in the morning.”

Grantaire opens his mouth.

“I don’t give a shit how tentatively creepy they are,” continues Eponine. “They’re great.”

Grantaire closes his mouth. “Tentatively?”

“Well, Enjolras would find them flattering, I think,” says Eponine. “Though maybe wait for like the second date before you whip out the nudes--”

“Eponine!”

“No judgment, they’re pretty fantastic nudes--”

“They were a dare!”

“I said no judgment!”

“Oh my god,” says Grantaire. He heads back over to the couch and sits down, sighing.

“Feel better?”

Grantaire thinks about that. Enjolras’ words are still something of a knife-wound in his stomach, but if he doesn’t think about it he doesn’t really notice. Enjolras’ texts are something of a itch in the back of his skull, but he’s not thinking about them so he doesn’t really notice. Enjolras himself, as always, is a burst of too-bright butterflies in the pit of his chest, and he’s given up on ignoring those. But he does feel slightly less inclined to paint Jehan flowers on the wall.

“Yeah,” he decides.

“Good,” says Eponine. “Twenty minutes--don’t do anything stupid.”

Grantaire makes a salute in the air. “Copy that.”

Eponine laughs at him, and he hangs up the phone. He debates chucking it across the room, but instead sets it down on his stomach. And then, for a reason that he’s not even sure about, he picks it up and thumbs to Enjolras’ last text. Third to last text.

 _How do you know if you like someone?_ it says.

Grantaire feels like it’s staring at him in an accusatory way, so he stares back.

 _How do you know if you like someone?_ it says.

 _I don’t know, Apollo_ , he types. _Why don’t you just ask them?_

He pauses, finger hovering over the keypad, before sighing, and hitting send.

Then he chucks the phone across the room, and settles down to wait for Eponine.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the shit has hit the fan. Sadly, I am going to California this weekend so idk when the next update will be. But soon, hopefully.
> 
> [How they met](http://zimriya.tumblr.com/post/53974809293/secret-message-youre-extremely-hot). Only not really. 
> 
> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://zimriya.tumblr.com/).


	5. Part the fifth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betaed by the lovely decourfeynated with an additional look by the equally lovely Marta. All other mistakes are my own.

**5\. Part the fifth**

\--

When Grantaire wakes up the next morning, he gets into the bathroom and halfway through a shower before he realizes that his head doesn’t hurt. The revelation comes five minutes into his shampooing, and he gets a burning eyeful of soap for his trouble.

Several minutes later, he wanders out of the bathroom clad in a pair of worn boxers, toweling at his hair, and nearly trips over Eponine.

“Jesus Christ!” he says, loudly, when he gets his feet back under him. “Eponine!”

On the floor, Eponine makes a vague groaning noise and rolls over. Grantaire had ended up losing his towel sometime while he was stumbling awkwardly around both the girl and bottles littering his floor, and Eponine reaches out to use it as something of a blanket. “Go away,” she says. “It’s too early.”

Now that he looks closely, Eponine looks very much like a drunken lump, and that certainly explains the bottles and the way Grantaire’s head remains pain-free. “Question,” he says. “Did I not get drunk last night?”

“No,” groans Eponine. “No, you basically just cried on me for a while, at which point I decided _I_ needed to get drunk.”

Thinking back on it, Grantaire realizes with a sinking feeling that he does remember practically climbing into Eponine’s lap and bemoaning his troubles. His nearly-six-foot, blond-haired, politics-teaching troubles.

 “Shit,” he says, pivoting on his feet and heading for the pants he was wearing last night. They’re still on the floor where he kicked them off for the shower, but there isn’t a phone in any of the pockets. “Eponine,” he says, slowly and cautiously. “Where’s my phone?”

Eponine pokes her head out from behind her impromptu towel blanket. “What?”

“My phone?”

“Oh yeah,” says Eponine. “Um.” She gets to her feet, tilting in a way that worries Grantaire enough for him to start forward awkwardly, and makes her way over to the door to Grantaire’s apartment. She pulls it open and leaves, door swinging a little from where she’s left it not quite closed.

Grantaire is left blinking in the now empty building. His eyes drift around the room to find all of Eponine’s things--shoes, bag, and coat. “Eponine?” he tries.

A few moments later, Eponine returns and starts rummaging through her things. “So good news,” she says. “Your phone is sitting in my back seat exactly where we left it.”

“But?” prompts Grantaire. He feels like he should be helping Eponine in her quest, but he has no idea what she’s doing.

“I can’t find my keys,” says Eponine. “And I’m pretty sure we hid them last night so we couldn’t get to it.” She seems to somewhat frustrated by the number of pockets on her jacket.

Grantaire blinks. “That seems stupid,” he says finally. “Seeing as you would eventually need to drive home.”

Eponine reaches out and pulls out her own phone, which she presents to Grantaire. “I texted Combeferre last night before the first bottle,” she says. “Also Cosette. I’ve no shortage on rides. And they should be right....here--”

Grantaire looks down at the phone in his hands. “Eponine,” he says. “This looks like a betting pool--”

Eponine yanks the phone out of his hands and flings it off in a random direction. “What?” she says, when Grantaire raises an eyebrow. “I found my keys.”

He continues staring at her, amused, as she gives them a jingle, and heads back out of the apartment. When she returns with the phone, she sets it down in Grantaire’s still open palms, and goes to sit down at his counter. “Feed me,” she says. “Please.”

Grantaire shakes his head at her, pockets the phone, and heads for the fridge. “What do you want?” he says.

\--

Somehow, Grantaire manages the rest of the week without talking to Enjolras. His phone is slowly burning a hole in his back pocket, and Courfeyrac has taken to shaking his head at him whenever he passes him on his way to work, but Grantaire actually makes it to the weekend before the situation comes to a head. The head in question takes the form of Joly, awkwardly pushing Grantaire on his borrowed desk chair down the hallways of the art building.

“I am really sorry,” Joly is saying, once Grantaire finishes gaping and manages to take in his words. “But Courfeyrac was saying all kinds of terrible things--”

“Joly,” Grantaire interrupts. He lifts his legs up a little and sighs. “You don’t have to apologize to me--”

“--and I don’t usually listen to Courfeyrac, but he was very convincing and--”

“Joly,” Grantaire says again, louder this time. “It’s okay.”

Joly colors a little, but doesn’t stop rolling Grantaire’s chair forward.

“But can I ask,” Grantaire continues, raising a hand to one of his students when they round a corner and pass him, “are you planning on rolling me all the way to the politics building?”

There’s a beat.

“What?” says Grantaire, into the ensuing silence. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

“Um,” says Joly, which is the point where Grantaire realizes that there was never any plan for Joly to roll Grantaire to the politics building.

“I am going to kill you,” Enjolras is in the middle of telling Courfeyrac, when the man walks him towards Joly and Grantaire. He’s blindfolded.

“Yes, you’ve said that,” says Courfeyrac, waving frantically at Joly.

Grantaire considers leaping off of the chair and making a break for it, but before he can do so, Bahorel and Feuilly appear. Feuilly looks sheepish, Bahorel looks gleeful, and Joly starts apologizing again.

“We’re not sorry,” says Bahorel. “He might be, but we’re not.” He drapes an arm around Joly’s shoulders and reaches down to grip Grantaire’s right bicep, hard. “Don’t think about it.”

“I wasn’t,” Grantaire says, dryly. He notes the way Enjolras cuts off mid tirade when he hears his voice, and tries not to let that bother him. He hasn’t checked his phone messages for a reason, after all.

“Uh huh,” says Bahorel. He uses his grip on Grantaire’s arm to wrestle him to his feet and towards a conveniently placed supply closet.

“You had a flighty look in your eyes,” agrees Enjolras.

The rest of their friends all nod, and Grantaire gapes around at them.

“You’re blindfolded!” he sputters. “How can you even tell?”

“Tone of voice,” Enjolras says, instantly. “That, and you’ve not responded to any of my texts.”

“Right,” says Grantaire. “Right, okay, I’m leaving now.” He starts to fight Bahorel’s grip on his arm, to no avail. “I will scream,” he tells Bahorel.

His friend slaps a hand over his mouth, winces when Grantaire opens his mouth to lick it, and pulls open the door. “You will thank me later,” he tells Grantaire’s furious eyes, grinning, and shoves him into the darkness.

“If you think I’m going in there you are mistaken,” says Enjolras.

Someone sighs, probably Courfeyrac. Someone grabs _someone_ , and a few moments later the door is opening again. Grantaire watches somewhat shell-shocked, as Enjolras walks into the closet with slightly more dignity sans blindfold.

“Um,” says Grantaire.

“Don’t talk to me,” says Enjolras.

The door slams shut.

Grantaire focuses his eyes on the slab of wood in front of him and begins counting to ten, slowly, in his head. “Can I talk to myself?” he says, and winces. “Sorry, that--that was--sorry.”

Enjolras lets out a breath; Grantaire wonders if it’s creepy that he can imagine the exact way the air moves through Enjolras’ nostrils, the way they flare and his eyelashes go fluttering against his cheekbones.

“No, I’m sorry,” says Enjolras, quietly. “That was unnecessary.”

“I don’t know,” says Grantaire. “I’m pretty sure I’m the reason we’re in here.”

Enjolras turns to look at him, and Grantaire finds his own eyes darting sideways in response. “Why would you say that?”

Grantaire laughs. He drags a hand up to rub at the back of his neck. “I’m the one who didn’t text back.”

Enjolras keeps staring at him. “What makes you think I did?” he says finally.

Grantaire’s fingers are on his phone instantly, thumbing open the lock screen and checking for new messages. He has none. “How--?” he says

Enjolras sighs. “Are we really doing this now?” he says.

“You have anywhere else to be?”

“He has nowhere else to be!” shouts Courfeyrac from what sounds like outside the closet. Grantaire winces; he’d thought they’d left. “Combeferre is covering his classes!”

“Combeferre can’t teach an advanced course on World History,” says Enjolras.

“Which class?” says Grantaire, because he knows for a fact that Enjolras has many courses on World History.

“The one with the students!” says Courfeyrac.

“Helpful,” says Enjolras.

“Be specific,” says Grantaire.

“The larger one!” shouts Courfeyrac, making Enjolras thrust his head back and Grantaire wince again. “Sorry!”

“I have no idea which class that is,” Grantaire tells Enjolras.

“Not a class on philosophy,” says Enjolras. “Combeferre will be no help--”

“Oh, hush, it’s the last class before finals, anyway,” says Courfeyrac. “You have plenty of time to work out your differences and kiss and make up.”

Grantaire goes faintly pink, hates himself for it, and refuses to meet Enjolras’ eyes. “Um,” he says.

“Who gave you my number?” says Enjolras, finally.

“How did you know?” says Grantaire.

“You’re the only one who calls me that infernal nickname,” says Enjolras, but not nearly as harshly as Grantaire is expecting.

“Oh.” He risks a look over; Enjolras looks like he’s flushing, too, but that could be the low lighting. “Courfeyrac.”

Enjolras sighs. “Figures.”

“Eponine made a stupid sign about giving me customer’s numbers,” clarifies Grantaire, to fill the space. “So it wasn’t unprompted.”

“It was to stop your moping!” shouts Courfeyrac.

“Would you shut up!” says Bahorel, and it sounds like he and Feuilly take hold of Courfeyrac and pull him down the hallway.

“Quick,” says Feuilly. “Put him on R’s chair.”

“What? No!” protests Courfeyrac, even as Grantaire listens to the sound of wheels on tiles.

“You still there, Joly?”

“Yes?” says Joly. “I’m supposed to let you out when you’re done?”

“I suppose we shouldn’t really kiss and make up, then,” says Grantaire. “Right?”

Joly doesn’t say anything in response for a while. “Please don’t?” he says finally.

“I hadn’t planned on it,” says Enjolras, somewhat dryly. “Had you?”

Grantaire turns to look at him more fully and steps completely into his space. “Kissing you?” he says, letting his eyes trail along the lines of Enjolras’ jawbone and down his neck. “All the time.”

Enjolras swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing, and his eyes flit around his face somewhat nervously. “Oh,” he says faintly.

“Yeah,” says Grantaire. He reaches up with hand to cup Enjolras’ cheek, thumb brushing along one cheekbone. He ends up watching the flutter of Enjolras’ eyelashes as the other man takes another, long, deep breath.

“Oh,” repeats Enjolras. “Okay, um.”

“You’re safe, though,” continues Grantaire, taking a step back and letting his hand fall to his side. “I have enough practice resisting to last a lifetime.”

“You haven’t known me for that long,” says Enjolras, somewhat breathlessly. Grantaire isn’t surprised, what with how much air he’s been inhaling.

“No,” agrees Grantaire. He watches Enjolras peek an eye open.

“Then how--” Enjolras says.

He doesn’t finish, because Grantaire gives up the ghost and leans up on his tiptoes to press the slightest hint of a kiss to the corner of his mouth. Enjolras’ eyes snap entirely open and he exhales, desperately, before tilting his head to better slot their lips together.

“Joly,” says Grantaire, not taking a step back. “You might want to unlock the door and run.”

“Oh god,” says Joly, but he does as requested and is absent from the hallway when Grantaire and Enjolras emerge.

Enjolras looks still faintly pink, but there’s the small smile on his face. It only grows when Grantaire takes hold of his hand and runs his thumb along the seam of his palm.

“Why are you so happy?” he says, jokingly.

Enjolras’ eyes widen briefly, before he snorts. “You’re one to talk,” he says, reaching up a hand to poke on of Grantaire’s cheeks. “You haven’t stopped smiling.”

“Oh,” says Grantaire, because he hasn’t. “ _Oh_.” He blinks, all of the air suddenly rushing free of his lungs, and takes a few steps back. He hasn’t stopped smiling, not until now, when it occurs to him that everything he’s ever wanted in his life has come true and instead of making him abysmally happy it’s just terrifying.

“Grantaire?” says Enjolras, sounding concerned, when Grantaire pulls his hand free and moves backward.

“I’m okay,” says Grantaire in a rush, which is a lie. “I mean, you’re okay. I mean--” He pauses to breathe. “Don’t think this means you’re forgiven.”

“For what?” asks Enjolras, after a pause.

 “You told me you didn’t want me around.” Grantaire manages to get a handle on the crushing feeling in his chest, but he can’t quite make his lungs behave.

“And you spent weeks anonymously texting me,” says Enjolras. He sounds somewhat incredulous. “Grantaire, what--?”

“I painted the last free wall in my apartment, Enjolras!” says Grantaire. He points a hand at Enjolras, aware that he looks ridiculous. “You--you can’t just kiss me to make up for that!”

“You kissed me?” Enjolras still sounds incredulous, but there’s a touch of concern there that Grantaire does not want to deal with.

“That’s not important!” he says, blushing a little and still having trouble breathing properly. “I have to go!”

“Hold on,” says Enjolras, loudly.

“Courfeyrac, Bahorel, Feuilly!” says Grantaire. “I need the chair!”

“Grantaire!” protests Enjolras, even as their friends appear with the chair and let Grantaire begin rolling it back towards the art offices.

“I’m okay!” says Grantaire over his shoulder. “We’re cool. We can pretend none of this ever happened.”

\--

“My life is over,” says Grantaire, sadly, to his steering wheel the next morning. It’s a very nice steering wheel, leather, and black, and it makes a fantastic resting place for his forehead.

In the car next to him, Eponine sighs. “R,” she says. “Get out of the car.”

“You don’t understand, ‘Ponine,” he continues. “I’m pretty sure any hope we had for simple friendship is gone.”

“Okay,” says Eponine. She reaches over and unlocks the doors herself and gets out of the car. “I’m going to work, now. You come in when you’re done moaning.”

“I’m such an idiot,” agrees Grantaire, still to his steering wheel.

“Oh my god,” says Eponine, coming around and pulling open the driver’s side door. “You’re ridiculous come on, get up.”

Grantaire sighs, but lifts his head off the steering wheel so that she can unbuckle his seat belt and pull the key out of the ignition. “Kill me,” he says.

“God you’re dramatic,” says Eponine. “So you kissed him. He kissed you back, yes?”

Grantaire gets his feet under him and stands in the parking-lot staring at her. “Yes,” he says finally, when he realizes that she’s completely serious. “But that’s not the problem.”

“Okay,” says Eponine, still serious. “What’s the problem then?”

She starts walking, and Grantaire follows in something of a daze. “The problem is that I walked away after?” he says, somewhat desperately.

“Oh yeah,” says Eponine. “Not your smartest idea.”

“Yeah?” says Grantaire. “Oh god why is my voice so high?”

“Nerves,” says Eponine. “Lack of sleep. Unrequited love that wasn’t all that unrequited after all.” She raises an eyebrow. “Shall I keep going?”

“No, that’s fine,” says Grantaire. He voice seems to have returned to something of a normal octave.

“Awesome,” says Eponine, patting him on the back. “Now walk.”

They make their way through the rest of the parking-lot in silence, save for Eponine reaching out to grab Grantaire’s keys and locking the car behind them with a chirp.

“Thanks,” says Grantaire.

“No problem,” says Eponine. “This was all in the fine print when I signed up to be your best friend. That and learn to find expensive wine for really cheap.”

“Or fake it,” points out Grantaire.

“Or fake it,” agrees Eponine. She reaches their door and goes to pull it open. “I didn’t realize you noticed.”

“I noticed,” says Grantaire, absently. His eyes are caught on the familiar chalkboard sign. “Eponine,” he growls.

“Don’t look at me,” says Eponine, raises both of her hands. The door swings closed and nearly hits her in the face, and she steps back. “First of all, that’s not my handwriting,” she adds, staring at the neat lines of _Today your barista is 1) Hella fucking gay_. “Second of all, I was with you all morning.”

Grantaire has to give her that. “Fine,” he says sourly. “But if I get one number I swear to god--”

“I know, I know,” says Eponine. She grabs the door handle again and tugs him free. “But since the only other person here who could have written that is Cosette, I am not erasing it.”

Grantaire glowers at her some more, but follows her inside. “Fair,” he says.

At the counter, Cosette lifts a hand and waves. It’s a Saturday, so Grantaire is a little surprised to see all of their friends sitting at a table with papers in front of them, but he smiles when Jehan smiles at him and rolls his eyes when Courfeyrac looks at him. Marius is standing near the counter talking with Cosette.

“Morning,” says Eponine, pleasantly. “Did you notice the sign?”

Cosette blinks, the picture of innocence. “I don’t know what you mean,” she says, brightly. “Do you, Marius?”

“What sign?” says Marius.

Grantaire waves a hand towards him. “He doesn’t count,” he says. “You’re marrying him--isn’t there some sort of legal jargon for situations like this?”

“Spousal privilege,” says Bahorel, “but I don’t think that applies for people who are engaged.”

Grantaire waves his hand again. “Whatever,” he says. “You’ve still got him trained.”

Cosette looks back at him with her too-big blue eyes.

“Fine,” says Grantaire. “Be that way.” He vaults his way over the counter, ignoring the way Eponine rolls her eyes and him and does the same.

“I do not know what you’re talking about,” says Cosette.

Grantaire doesn’t get to find out if she does, because not five minutes after they open, Enjolras comes striding in wearing skintight jeans and a loose fitting button down shirt. He isn’t carrying any bags, but he has a pen tucked behind one ear that Grantaire is pretty sure he forgot about. He also looks a little nervous.

“Hello,” says Grantaire, when it becomes clear he’s the only one going to speak; Eponine and Cosette have vanished to god knows where and all of their friends are suddenly very engrossed in their papers.

“Hi,” says Enjolras, somewhat breathlessly. “I’ll have my usual?”

Grantaire nods, and goes around to make the coffee. There doesn’t appear to be any residual awkwardness due to their kiss, but he’s not about to mention it and risk making it worse.

When he’s finished with the drink, he sets it down on the counter and grins back at Enjolras, who hands him the money, exact change, as always. Grantaire fights a wider smile, and goes to hand him his receipt. “Here you are,” he says, brightly. “I didn’t even sign it, this time.”

He goes to take his hand back, but finds he can’t, because Enjolras has tightened his fingers around Grantaire’s and is refusing to let go of his hand. “I saw your sign,” he says.

Grantaire pauses. “Yeah?” he says, tentatively.

 “The one about--”

“Me being ‘hella fucking gay’ and ‘desperately single.’ I know,” finishes Grantaire. “I’m pretty sure one of the idiots in the back did it, but I’m not sure which one.”

He looks down when he finishes, and finds Enjolras frowning at him, before reaching up to grab the pen behind his ear. (So he has noticed it, then.)

“What are you doing?” says Grantaire.

“Giving you my number,” says Enjolras, like he’s giving Grantaire the weather report or ordering another coffee. He scrawls the ten digits onto the back of Grantaire’s palm and smiles, pausing. “Are you going to text me back?”

Grantaire pulls out his phone on autopilot, and sends a text message to Enjolras’ number. A few seconds later, when Enjolras has pulled out his own phone and darted his fingers across the keypad, Grantaire’s phone buzzes with a new message.

In response to his somewhat dazed, _Hi_ , Enjolras has written, _Will you go out with me?_

Grantaire waits a beat. His phone buzzes again.

_:D_

“Oh my god,” says Grantaire, when he finds his voice. “Did you just send me a smiley?”

“What?” says Enjolras. He puts his phone down on the counter in between them and looks up at Grantaire with somewhat doting eyes. It’s jarring and no less panic inducing, but doesn’t make Grantaire want to flee the premises like it did yesterday. “I could smile hopefully at you in person, if you like.”

“You could smile hopefully,” repeats Grantaire, incredulous. “Enjolras--” He breaks off, voice going raw.

“What?” says Enjolras, again, softer this time. “Have you never been asked out, before?”

“No, I--” says Grantaire.

“Is that a yes?” says Enjolras. He reaches out to gently untangle Grantaire’s fingers from their death grip on his phone, and sets the device down on the counter.

“Yes,” says Grantaire, heart thumping wildly in his chest.

“Yes that’s a yes, or--” says Enjolras.

“Yes to everything, you dork,” says Grantaire, in a rush, before he’s leaning in and kissing Enjolras.

It’s a messy kiss, because Enjolras is half-laughing even as he meets him half-way, and Grantaire ends up with Enjolras’ nose smushed against his and a mouthful of cheek. He corrects that easily enough, smirking against Enjolras’ skin and tilting his head to slot their head together.

“Nice,” says Enjolras, before Grantaire decides he really shouldn’t be talking and presses forward so that he can kiss him harder. Enjolras’ bottom lip is full and pink and begging to be bitten, and the noise he makes when Grantaire does so should be illegal. It lets him ease his way into his mouth, tongue mapping the grooves of his teeth and tasting the mint of his toothpaste.

“Thank you,” says Grantaire, on his next breath.

Enjolras groans, eyes fluttering shut, and reaches up to bury his fingers in Grantaire’s hair. That’s lovely, actually, and Grantaire goes up on his tiptoes so that Enjolras tightens his grip. He moans, low in his throat, and considers briefly climbing up onto the counter.

“Yay,” says Eponine, walking out from the back with Cosette and passing them. “You made up.”

Grantaire ignores her, focusing instead on figuring out how to make Enjolras near-sigh with pleasure again.

“Awesome,” agrees Cosette. “That’s a health code violation.”

Grantaire gives up considering the counter move and hoists himself up, pulling away from Enjolras’ mouth briefly so that he can do so, and then getting lost in the glassed out blue gaze he finds leveled at him. “Hi,” he says, breathlessly, to Enjolras’ nose.

“Hi,” replies Enjolras, voice raspy. “Kiss me again.”

Grantaire makes a wounded noise and goes to do so.

“Seriously,” says Cosette. “Health code violation.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes, but it’s Enjolras who gets a hand free to make a crude gesture at her.

“I resent that,” says Cosette. “I’m the one who gives you coffee every morning, Enjolras, you be careful.”

Grantaire breaks away from Enjolras’ lips. “Hey,” he says. “I give him coffee too.”

Enjolras hums, amused, and presses a kiss to the skin near Grantaire’s lips. “And you do so marvelously,” he says, dreamily. “Thank you.”

Grantaire gapes back down at him in somewhat muted amusement. “Do you know what you sound like?” he says.

“Normal?” says Enjolras.

“Like a porno?” says Eponine.

“Like a health code violation?” repeats Cosette.

“Criminal,” says Grantaire ignoring them all. “Absolutely criminal.”

“Oh,” says Enjolras, blushing faintly. “Good,” he buries his face in Grantaire’s neck and exhales, “because you _look_ criminal.”

“I don’t know whether to start cooing or be sick,” says Eponine.

Cosette pulls out some post-it-notes from God knows where, scrawls a hurried message on one, and slaps it to Enjolras’ head.

Grantaire pulls it free of the curls and reads it, brow furrowed. “We at the Cafe Musain do not support the health code violation that is currently occurring and are doing everything in our power to make it stop.”

Cosette lifts a brow. “What?”

“You are a devil child,” says Grantaire. “And only the fact that today is the best day of my life is stopping me from attempting to exorcise you.”

“The best day of your life?” says Enjolras.

Grantaire looks down at him and smiles. “Yeah,” he says, a little gruffly. “That a problem?”

“Not at all,” says Enjolras.

Grantaire looks down at him, and has to kiss him again. He doesn’t get to.

Eponine appears at his side and begins to herd him and Enjolras out of the cafe. She physically tugs Grantaire off the counter, somehow managing to not bruise his knees in the process, and then begins walking them towards the door. “Go home,” she says. “Have sex. Be happy. I do not care. Just don’t do it here.”

Grantaire smirks at her. “Oh, you love it,” he says.

“Not as much as you love Enjolras,” she retorts, before slamming the doors in their faces. “Go.”

Grantaire looks down at the sign to their right, and shakes his head. “The thing that started it all.”

“Mmm,” says Enjolras.

“It needs some updating, though,” continues Grantaire. He reaches out with a hand and wipes away _desperately_ before taking hold of the chalk and writing _Absolutely not_ in its place. He leaves the request for numbers, but adds, _if you dare. My boyfriend is terrifying and knows more about the state of world politics and history than you could ever dream of. That should not be hot, but it is._

Enjolras blinks down at the writing, eyes going darker, and darker with each stroke of chalk, and swallows.

“What?” says Grantaire. “Do you know anyone who knows more about world politics or history than you do?”

“No,” says Enjolras, sounding choked. “But I was more stuck on the last bit.”

Grantaire reaches out and takes his hand. “Ah,” he says. “Boyfriend?”

“Yeah,” says Enjolras, tightly. “That.”

“Oh.” Grantaire considers the fingers in his grip. “Is that bad?” He goes to let go.

Enjolras doesn’t look at him. “No.” He tightens his own hand around Grantaire’s.

“Oh,” says Grantaire, again. He shifts from foot to foot. “So, is it good, then, or--”

“Yes,” says Enjolras, still not looking at him. He focuses on ground in front of them, then his own shoes, before looking over at Grantaire. “Yes, it’s--”

“Good,” finishes Grantaire.

“Yeah,” says Enjolras.

“Awesome,” says Grantair, grinning. “That’s--”

“Awesome,” finishes Enjolras, smiling back at him. He runs his thumb along Grantaire’s own, and Grantaire’s heart is loud in his chest.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” says Grantaire. “Again.”

Enjolras just smiles back at him. “Okay,” he says.

Grantaire blinks. “Okay?” he says. “Just, okay?”

Enjolras tilts his head. “Yes,” he says, slowly. “Why is there something wrong with that--?”

“No,” says Grantaire, quickly. “No, not at all. I am totally for kissing you.” He reaches for Enjolras’ waist. “Ready?”

Enjolras stares back at him, blankly, before stepping back. “I changed my mind,” he says, turning on his heel and starting across the parking lot.

Grantaire stares after him for a moment, before collecting himself and hurrying to catch up. “About the dating thing?” he says. “Or the kissing thing? Or the me thing? Or the--”

Enjolras reaches out and tangles their fingers again. “Stop talking,” he says, but he’s laughing. “Idiot.”

“Your idiot, though,” says Grantaire, not entirely jokingly.

Enjolras’ grip on his hand tightens. “Yeah.”

“Cool,” says Grantaire, heart thumping. “That’s--”

“Cool,” finishes Enjolras. “Now stop talking.”

“Okay,” says Grantaire, and laughs when Enjolras pulls them to a stop so that he can shut him up with his lips. Okay, indeed.

\--

End.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://zimriya.tumblr.com/).
> 
> I know I said smut but it didn't fit with the flow of the story. I wrote it, however, so [have at it](http://zimriya.tumblr.com/post/54609065161/epilogue-re-birthmarks).


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